Curses!
by Optimistically-Hopeless
Summary: When England has had the last straw, he decides to put a curse on America to teach him a lesson. But he quickly discovers that his curse has only made things between them much more interesting. Rated T for some language and yaoi. :D
1. Chapter 1

Alrighty. :) So, this is my favorite pairing in Hetalia. At first, I thought this story was going to be a one shot, but I don't think that I can contain all of this cuteness in just one chapter! So I really hope that this works out! :D Also, this is actually the very first time that I've ever liked a yaoi pairing, so this is kind of different for me… But it will definitely be fun to write!

So, quick disclaimers so no one can sue me! I don't own Hetalia or any characters related to Hetalia… though they would make a nice Christmas present. ;) They are property of Hidekaz Himaruya and Funimation.

So, I hope you guys like my story! Please review! Reviews make me happy! :)

x-x-x-x-x

The room was dark, only lit by a few candles, their flames flickering eerily. A large circle was carved into the floor, shapes and words of a long-forgotten language intricately decorating it. Before the circle stood a cloaked England, spell book in hand. He flipped through the pages, looking for just the right spell to use. He thought back to how stupid America had been the other day at one of their meetings, how he had yet again insulted his cooking, how he had tried to shove a hamburger down his throat, how he had just been rude and inconsiderate as usual. England wasn't going to take America's antics anymore. For only a few moments had England actually thought of killing him, but then memories of their past flashed through his head, making him immediately change his mind. So he had decided to just make America sick. He scanned over the pages, looking for just the right spell. He wanted something that would just make America really sick, but not something that could kill him. Something just to teach him that if you mess with England, you'll get screwed over like none other.

He had been looking through his spell book for a while now, but had not yet found just what he was looking for. There had been a spell he'd found that caused a horrible fit of giggles. But America already laughed far too much, so that would just make England's problem worse. There had been another that caused the victim to become forgetful, but that would just make America complain about everything even more than he already did. That was definitely not the spell that England wanted.

A spell caught his eye. It said that it would cause the person to have a horrible case of stomach flu. England thought it over. It would make America uncomfortable and put him in his proper place—on the ground before him, puking his guts out. Britain smiled as he imagined it. He'd tell America that he was the one who cast the spell, and that if America actually grew up and started acting like an adult, he'd remove it. He could see it now: America begging him to stop it, begging to be able to actually keep his precious hamburgers down.

"Perfect," he purred as he readied himself. He couldn't wait to see America at his feet, begging for mercy. He would finally be able to get back at him for all he had ever done to him. It was going to be the best moment of his life.

"_Obiectum oculus meus, ut me diligat_," Britain chanted, the image of America's pleading face in his mind, "_No alii Habebis eum, mea ei!_"

All of the candles flickered as he ended the spell, a chill running through the room. The spell—it was done. England couldn't contain his laughter as he thought of how America was going to respond, how he was going to beg for relief.

"I'll go see him now," England muttered to himself, a sneer on his face. He couldn't wait to rub his victory in America's face. For once, he would be the winner! He laughed as he exited the room to prepare his bags.

x-x-x-x-x

"Ha ha ha!" America laughed, nearly at tears. "Ha ha, dude! He took a potato chip! Ha ha, and ate it! Man, that's classic!"

America turned off his television as he got up to grab another hamburger. He really didn't have anything to do today besides stay home and do random things to keep himself entertained. Usually he'd hang out with Tony, his righteous alien friend, but was out of galaxy right now. He hadn't given America that many details—just something about "probing." That was all he needed to hear to know that he probably didn't want to know all of the details. So, with Tony off doing whatever he was doing, America was just chilling out at his house, doing what he did best—being awesome.

Just as he reached to grab another hamburger from the huge piled he had on his table, something happened. He felt his stomach clench, surprising him. He gripped his stomach, looking down at it curiously. He hadn't had that many hamburgers really—well, at least not a lot for him. He shouldn't be sick. He looked up, trying to think of what else he could have eaten that might have made him sick. But his eyes stopped on a picture on the table that he had gotten out earlier. It was an old picture of England. One that had been taken before the Revolutionary War. One taken back when he used to actually smile.

America felt his stomach clench again as he blushed. England. Just thinking of him made his stomach flip. He brushed back his hair as he tried to understand what was going on. Why did looking at England make him feel like this? It had never really happened before. Why now?

Maybe someone had drugged his food or something?

x-x-x-x-x

It had taken a few hours, but England finally arrived at America's house. He could barely contain himself, extremely excited to see just how sick his spell had made him, and how desperate he was to have it lifted. He wondered just what America would do to make England take off the curse. He smiled as he thought of just how much fun he was going to have with this.

He knocked on the door, but suddenly realized that America just might not be able to answer it. He might be so sick that he was collapsed on the floor, unable to move. A seed of worry planted itself in him as he pondered over how he would get into the house if this were the case—maybe he could break through a window? Then, to his relief, the door opened, proving his worrying unnecessary.

America poked his head through the open door and, to England's surprise, began to blush furiously. "H-Hey, Britain," he said, smiling nervously, still hiding behind his door. "What are you doing here?"

England tried to look him over to see if he looked physically sick at all, but he was concealed by the door. Curiously, he peeked around the door to see that America was dressed down in sweats and a hoodie, but looked completely normal. His clothes looked far too clean for him to have been throwing up. Irritated, he glared at him, upset that America wasn't begging for mercy. But, once again surprising him, America jumped back, blushing more.

"Dude, seriously, did… did you need anything?"

"Have you been sick at all?" Britain asked, just hoping that maybe, just maybe, the spell was taking its time to take effect.

"S-sick?" America asked, scratching his head, ruffling his light brown hair. "Uh…Well, I don't know if you'd call it sick, but…"

"Well, have you been experiencing anything weird?" England asked forcefully, taking a step towards him. "Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Ha ha, w-weird?" America asked, taking another step back. "Uh… heh, weird. Um…"

"Just answer the question, you git!" England demanded, quickly losing his patience.

America's face became tense, his blue eyes flicking from side to side, never landing once directly on England. "Uh, well… I… I've been… kind of… I guess…"

"Get the bloody hell on with it!" Britain cried.

"I can't stop thinking about you, man!" America blurted, his face going yet another shade darker. "I've been thinking about you for hours! I just keep on seeing your face! I keep on hearing you talk to me! It's really freaking me out, dude!"

To say the least, England hadn't been expecting to hear that. "Huh?" He cocked his head to the side, utterly confused. "What… what have I been saying?"

America once again broke eye contact with Engalnd. "Er, well… stuff like… Uh… Like… Like you…" His voice trailed off as he looked at the door frame like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

"Speak up!" England said. He needed to find out where he had gone wrong with the spell. He wouldn't be able to do that if America didn't tell him what the bloody hell was going on.

"You keep saying that…" America's voice cut off once again. England was about to hit him when he finally said, "You keep saying that you love me."

England almost passed out. "What?"

"You keep saying that you love me and that you… you want me…" America's face went yet another shade red as he saw that England was not at all happy with what he was saying.

"What the bloody hell is this," England muttered to himself. He set down his bag and started rummaging through it. Luckily he had set the spell book near the top, so it was fairly easy to find. "Hey, America," England said, looking back up at him. "Can I come in? I need to look over something."

"Huh?" America said, flustered. His eyes once again flitted every which way as if literally looking for a reason to decline. But after a moment, it seemed that he gave up. "Uh, yeah, sure."

America shuffled away from the door to let England inside. England walked past him, somewhat concerned with the way he felt America's blue eyes latched on to him. Yet another reason he had to fix whatever spell he had put on him as soon as he could.

England took a seat on America's overstuffed couch as he flipped back through the pages of his book. It took him a minute, but he found the page with the curse he had used. He scanned it to find the incantation.

"Hey, what's that?" America asked, sitting down next to England. He sat close to him. Too close for his liking.

"None of your business," England said dismissively as he scooted over a few inches away from America. He returned to the page, his green eyes instantly finding the spell. He read over it, and didn't see where he could have messed up. He remembered reading it perfectly! Nothing should have gone wrong. But then he read the title of the spell. The one he had wanted to do was the one right above what he had read. He had skipped the line! He wanted to shoot himself in the foot for his complete and utter stupidity. Looking over it, the one that he had read instead had an extremely different effect. Remembering the Latin he had learned many centuries ago, he translated it. And felt his stomach sink like a rock.

_The object of my eye, make him love me. No others shall have him, make him mine._

He had made America _fall in love with him._

"Hey, you okay?"

England nearly fell off the couch. He looked over at America, and felt himself flush. The way he was looking at him made his skin crawl. America didn't really have any respect for personal space in the first place, but now he was even more ignorant of it. He had left barely an inch between the two of them. For God's sake, he could feel his breath on his neck. England tried to scoot farther away from him, but found that he was pressed against the arm of the chair.

"G-get away from me, wanker!" he cried as he jumped up from the chair. He felt like his face was on fire, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of there. _Now_. But, as he thought through it, he realized that this would only get worse if he didn't fix it. Suddenly, the image of America fawning over him during a meeting flashed through his head. A horrible chill ran through him. No. He had to fix this now.

"What?" America asked as if practically sitting in another man's lap was something completely acceptable. "I wasn't trying to do anything."

England glared at him, straightening out his clothes. "America, if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you'd stay away from me while I'm here."

A surprised look flashed on America's face. "While… you stay?" he repeated, gripping the edge of his hoodie. "You're… staying ? For how long?"

"For as long as it takes to make you stop acting so…" He stared at America, and shivered inwardly. "Creepy," he finished.

America stayed silent for a while, his eyes not leaving England for a second. But a sudden smile crossed his face. "Okay!" he said happily. "I don't have a guest room, so we can sleep together!"

England felt himself gag. "What the bloody—no!" he said, taking a huge step away from the couch. "No way in bloody hell!"

America's eyes widened, blood rushing to his face. "N-no! Not like that!" he replied nervously, tensing up. "I meant that we could—"

"I don't care what you meant!" England retorted, holding his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. "We are _not_ going to sleep together, you twit!"

America brought his legs up and rested his chin on his knees. "Okay, okay, sorry," he said, staring off into space. England wanted to punch him as he just sat there and pouted like a child. This was the exact reason he hated him so much. He fought for his independence just so that he could complain about how people didn't do what he wanted them to. He had been independent from England for two centuries, and he still acted like he did when he was just a few years old.

With a sigh, England picked up his spell book and went to sit in the farthest possible chair away from America. He honestly couldn't wait for America to get back to normal. America being a complete git, he was used to. But America asking him to _sleep_ with him? No, this had to change.

x-x-x-x-x

America sat on his couch, pouting about England and his overreactions. There was no way he would have asked to have sex with him! He just wanted them to sleep together, that's all. They could sleep in the same bed, that's all he was saying he wanted to do. But, _no_, England, him and his stupid British ways, had to jump to the conclusion that all America was, was a sex-hungry pervert. And he was definitely _not_ a pervert—he was too much of a hero for that!

But as America was sulking over England and his overreaction, he suddenly realized that he had been watching England for a while. He wasn't doing anything interesting, yet America couldn't take his eyes off of him. The way his messy blonde hair poked out around his head, the way his thick eyebrows furrowed when he was concentrating, the way his emerald green eyes moved so smoothly across the page he was reading. One of his legs was crossed over the other, one hand holding his book as his other held his chin. He just looked so sophisticated as he sat there, so intellectual. So…

Beautiful.

"Eeh!" America gasped, ducking his face behind his knees. England gave him a weird look, but then went back to ignoring him. Even though England didn't seem concerned, America was being freaked out beyond what he thought was ever possible. How could he be thinking what he was thinking? He shouldn't ever be thinking about England like that! They were barely friends! They were two _guys_! His thoughts wandered as he realized just how far apart they had grown from each other. He really didn't mind being around England, but he could tell that England wasn't necessarily fond of him. There were still times that he thought of England as an older brother, but he knew that, after all they had gone through, it was unlikely that they'd ever be able to get back to how they were before.

Thinking about how the two of them used to be didn't usually bug America. But for some reason now, it really hurt. He thought back to how they used to be when he was little. England, whenever he would actually come home from wars or business, would always be smiling, always happy to see how much America had grown. He'd bring back gifts and stories to tell America, and would be excited to get to hear all of his stories too. America wouldn't leave England's side at all if possible, and he'd always cling to him when he tried to leave on business. The only thing that'd make him let go of England was when he'd promise America that he'd be back soon. He'd let go and watch him leave, hoping that he'd keep his promise this time and be back when he said he would. But, as America found out through the years, England was never great at keeping promises.

England suddenly looked up from his book, an irritated glare on his face. "Will you stop staring at me?" he growled. "I'm trying to focus."

America jumped, turning his head so fast that he almost broke his own neck. "S-sorry," he stammered. He felt his face flushed; he wasn't trying to be a creeper! He really wasn't! But he couldn't help looking at him and his gorgeous body.

Oh dear God. He needed to stop this.

He started to look around the room, trying to find something, anything, that would take his mind off of England. His eyes searched the entire room, but there was nothing that could hold his attention for more than a few seconds. And every time he would look away from one object, his eyes would always find their way back to England. It was as if he was a magnet, and America's eyes were just unwillingly drawn to him.

"Stop it, you wanker!" England cried, his face reddening with anger. "Honestly, do you want me to slap you across your face?"

"Gaah!" America said, burying his face in his hands. "Dude, I'm sorry! I don't mean to stare!"

"If you didn't mean to," England grumbled, "you would've stopped by now."

"I seriously can't stop!"

"And why the bloody hell not?" England hissed.

"Because you're freakin' _hot_!"

England's face went to a shade of red that America had never seen before. It took a second for America to realize what he had just said. When he did, he nearly screamed. He wanted to go and find a deep hole, jump in it and _die_.

"I'll just leave now," America said. He didn't wait for any response from England as he jumped up and ran to his room, slamming the door closed as fast as possible. He face planted on his bed, shoving his face into a pillow. He hoped beyond all belief that England couldn't hear him as he shouted profanities into his pillow.

Why did he have to be so stupid?

x-x-x-x-x

When America opened his eyes, his room was pitch black. He tried to see what time it was, but he couldn't read the numbers on the digital clock. Groggily, he searched for his glasses. He tried to find them on his night stand, but nothing was there. He went to brush hair out of his face when he found his glasses lying right next to his face. _Weird,_ he thought as he put his glasses back on. He was confused as he read the time: it was eleven at night. Why was he in bed? How long had he been in bed?

He felt his stomach lurch as he remembered that England had come to his house. He had ran into his room when he had… oh God, he had called him hot. America tried to remember when he had fallen asleep, but everything after he had come back into his room was a blur.

He turned on his light as he sat on the edge of his bed. He wondered what England was doing at the moment. Where was going to sleep? England had flat out refused to sleep with him—even though America had meant nothing perverted about that—and America didn't have a guest room. He wasn't sure where England was going to sleep, but he didn't want to leave England to find a comfortable space of floor to sleep on. America was too much of a hero for that!

America walked down the hall that led into his living room to find that there were still lights on. Staying up late was always normal for America, seeing as night time was when all of the cool stuff happened. But for all of the years that America lived with England, rarely did England stay up past ten at night. He was a big believer of bedtimes and waking up early. So with it being past eleven at night, it would be pretty weird for him to still be awake.

"England?" America said as he poked his head into the living room. A blush crossed his face as he spotted England where he had left him, sleeping soundly with the book still in his lap. His head rested on his shoulder with his hair fallen into his face. His mouth was slightly open, his soft breaths audible from where America was standing. He had to admit, when he wasn't scowling at people with pure malice, England was actually pretty cute.

"Hey, England," America said as he walked into the room. However, England didn't stir. "England?" America cocked his head at him, wondering what to do. He knew that England could fall to sleep in record time, but he didn't know that he was such a heavy sleeper. He didn't want to just leave him there, sleeping on a chair. With the way his head was, he was going to have a horrible crick in his neck in the morning if he just left him there to sleep. He could possibly just let him sleep on the couch, but that didn't seem right either. America had slept on a couch before, and he had been achy for days afterwards.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. He had slept on the couch before! He could do it again. He lied to himself, trying to make himself believe that the couch was the most comfortable place to sleep in the whole entire world. It wasn't an exactly convincing lie, but he decided to go with it anyway. So, he'd sleep on the couch. And he'd let England sleep in his bed. It was perfect… well, at least for England it was. But that was his main concern right now.

But there was still a problem with that. How was he going to get England in his bed? _Well_, he thought,_ I could always carry him._ But his stomach churned as he thought of what could happen. What if he woke up? What if he started freaking out at him? What if he thought he was trying to rape him or something?

What if he left?

America sighed as he couldn't come up with another way to transfer England. He just had to hope that England was a really heavy sleeper. Taking a piece of paper from the coffee table, America put it in England's book to mark his place and set it down with the few others books he had laying around. Then, carefully, he put one arm behind England's back. He waited to see if England would wake up, but he just continued to sleep. With a breath to try and settle his nerves, he slipped his other arm beneath his legs. He gingerly lifted him out of the chair, relieved when England didn't stir. He meant to take him immediately to bed, but the feeling of England in his arms was something that made his nerves go crazy. England was really powerful and cunning during battle, but with him sleeping in his arms, America realized just how small and fragile he was. Sudden thoughts went through his head. He could just take him into his room, lock the door. He could make him his. He could…

America quickly rid his mind of these dark, tempting thoughts. He couldn't just do that to England. That would be wrong. So, with a sigh, he began to carry him to bed.

"America…"

He nearly dropped England as he felt his stomach drop like a boulder. But as he looked down at him, he realized with relief that England was just talking in his sleep. He was talking in his sleep about _him. _America blushed as he thought of what England could be dreaming of him doing. Maybe, just maybe, England felt something for him too.

"America… you git…"

_Or maybe not. _With a disappointed sigh, America carried him the rest of the way to his room. Luckily he had kept his door open, so it wasn't a challenge of opening the door with his hands full. Gently, he laid England down on the bed, doing his best not to drop him. For a second he thought of trying to change his clothes, but decided against it—too much temptation if that happened.

Once he had put the covers over him, he turned off the lamp, sending the room back into darkness beside the residual light from the hall. "Night, England," America said. He turned around and walked through the door, and pushed it most of the way closed. The light in the hallway sent a small streak of light into the room, just barely illuminating where England lay. America gave him one last look as he smiled. "England," he whispered, "I… I love you." Smiling, he closed the door, heading to the "comfortable" couch to sleep.

x-x-x-x-x

Waah! So cute! :) England needs to lighten up though… lol Oh, but I can't wait for the next chapter! I hope you guys like it! And I promise it will get even better from here on out. ^_^ Thanks for reading, and please review! :)


	2. Chapter 2

So, can I just say, "WOW!" I had no idea that this was going to get so many favorites and alerts in one day! Thanks everyone! And if you all wanted to make me a very happy camper, I would love it if you all reviewed! :D Thanks you so much for the support! :)

Anyways, once again, some quick disclaimers! I don't own Hetalia or any of the related characters. They are property of Hidekaz Himaruya and Funimation. Please, don't sue me. :P

Well, here's the next chapter! Please review!

x-x-x-x-x

Something wasn't right.

England groggily opened his eyes, an unsettling feeling forcing him out of his slumber. But when he attempted to, he was forced to squint for a while before he could actually make anything out, the light in the room being far too bright. As his vision began to clear, he began to become more and more panicked. He felt his heart beat uncomfortably hard as he realized he had absolutely no idea where he was. He prayed hard that he hadn't gotten drunk again and had broken into someone's house.

Or slept with someone.

Feeling his skin crawl at that horrid possibility, he jolted upright and threw the covers off of him. He prepared himself for the worst, but found that he was still fully dressed. Not even his shoes had been taken off. He sighed with relief that he wouldn't have to explain how he gotten someone pregnant. After he had calmed down a slight bit, he gave the room a quick look around. He suddenly had no difficulty finding out where he was once he actually saw his surroundings. This was without a doubt America's room. There were American flags all over the walls, hamburger wrappers crumpled on the floor, and several medals, trophies, and plaques all talking about how great America was. The only question he had was how he had gotten there. He remembered arriving here yesterday and finding out that he had done the wrong spell. His face flushed as he remembered how America had called him "freakin' hot" and then ran into his room. He also remembered hearing America swearing loudly for a good five minutes until he just faded into silence. England, with a headache, had decided to just give his eyes a rest for a few minutes. But, seeing as he had just woken up in a bed, it had turned into a few hours. England stood up, trying to straighten out his now wrinkled clothes. But he soon found it difficult to make them look presentable, seeing as he had slept in them. With a sigh, he gave up and decided that he would just have to change into something else. Luckily, he had decided to pack a few extra clothes just in case America hadn't wanted to beg for forgiveness. Which he definitely didn't want to now.

England exited the room and walked down the hall to the living room. Not even at the end of the hall, he could tell that America was sleeping in the living room—he could hear him snoring. He stuck his head in the room, and, indeed, America was sleeping soundly on the couch. One leg was hanging off the side, foot placed on the floor, the other leg dangling off the arm of the couch. America's head was propped up on the opposite arm, his neck looking like it was at an uncomfortable angle. America's left arm was lying across the back of the couch, his right thrown over his stomach. Why he had decided to sleep on the couch that was obviously too small for him, England had no idea. But, in the end, he decided that it was his house after all, so he really didn't care.

"Hey, git," England said loudly, trying to wake him up. He silenced himself though when he realized that the house would be a lot less interesting if America was asleep. Maybe if America just continued to sleep, he could actually figure out how to rid him of this damned curse and just get on with his life. So he gave America one last glare as he grabbed his bags he had left from the night before.

After some searching, he found the closest bathroom to change in, seeing as he didn't want to change in front of pictures of America. Things were already far too awkward between them; he didn't need to feel his eyes on him when he was undressing. As he rummaged through his bags, he sighed at the outfits he had chosen for this trip. One, in reality, he hadn't picked out that many. He was going to run out of them soon and have to ask America to wash them—ugh, the humiliation! Plus he had only picked out his usual suits to make himself look more intimidating, more powerful. But, once again seeing that the curse had gone wrong, he found this image that he had prepared was no longer needed. For a split second, he thought of maybe asking to borrow some of America's clothes, but he shoved that option to the very bottom of his list of possibilities. No way was he going to put himself at the level of needing help, especially from America. Not having any other good options in mind, England pulled out one of his simpler dress shirts and a neatly folded pair of pants. This would just have to work for now.

Once he was dressed, he realized how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten anything since he had arrived, and his stomach was not approving of this. He hoped that he would be able to find something actually edible in this house, but he didn't get those hopes up too high. Knowing America, he probably only had a bunch of crap laying around that he somehow considered "food."

After a little bit of walking around the house, England was able to find his way back to the living room. America was still fast asleep on the couch, but he had adjusted himself while England had been gone. His right arm hung over the back of the chair, his face pressed against back cushions with his mouth half open, once again leaving his neck at what must have been an uncomfortable angle. His legs were curled up towards his body, pressed against the arm of the couch. Really, England had no idea how he was able to stay sleep like that.

_Stupid idiot_, he thought looking down at him. He was far too tall for this couch. England would have been able to sleep on it without any problem. Why had he decided to take the couch and give England his bed? It was ludicrous. It made no sense. Why would he do such a thing?

_Because he loves you._

"Tch!" England said, hitting himself in the head for thinking such a thing. Well, of course he loved him—that's what the spell was supposed to do, right? That's the only reason America was acting like this! England quickly turned away from him, refusing to let himself ever think that thought again.

He figured that a good way to take his mind off of America's ridiculous fascination with him was to try and find something to eat. And he was right. As usual, the main things that America had stored in his kitchen were hamburgers from McDonalds, ice creams of several flavors, and some Mountain Dew. Typical idiotic American. There was no way in hell that England was going to disgrace his stomach with such rubbish. So he started looking around the kitchen for such things as flour, sugar, and etcetera for what was needed to make something that wouldn't make him sick. But of course America had to put them in such illogical places, so England had to search for a while to actually find anything he was looking for.

England straightened back up from his searching of cabinets, suddenly aware of how quiet it was. He could no longer hear America's snoring. He was about to turn around to investigate when he felt two arms slip around his waist. He nearly screamed as he heard America say, "Good morning, England," in his ear. America's breath on his neck sent chills down his spine, his face burning. America was much, much too close, having left no space between them. England's back was pressed up right against his front, America's chin perched on his shoulder, his light brown hair tickling the side of his face. England meant to protest, but all he could get out was a choked, "Gah!"

This needed to stop. Now. If it didn't, he was going to go completely insane.

x-x-x-x-x

America was woken up by the shuffling he heard in his kitchen. For a second, he was worried that he was going to have to beat the living crap out of whoever had broken into his house. Then he remembered the reason why he was sleeping on the couch. England must be up. America stretched as much as his achy body would allow, feelings its complaints as his joints cracked. He would take some pain meds later on, so as to not make England think he wanted his bed back. To be perfectly honest, he'd love his soft, comfortable bed, non-pain-causing bed back. But If England refused to sleep with him, then he guessed that he should just continue to sleep on the couch to be considerate.

Standing up, he stretched a little bit more, trying to loosen his sore muscles up. As he stretched, it really occurred to him that _England_ was in the kitchen. With a smile, he figured that he should at least say good morning to him.

Quietly, he walked into the kitchen, wondering just what he was doing. He smiled as he saw England searching in his cupboards, obviously looking for something. America had never been really great with putting things in their rightful place, so he could tell that England wasn't exactly pleased with his massive amounts of disorganization. He had to keep his laughter hidden—he loved how it was still pretty early, yet England was already dressed up as if he was at an important meeting. He loved how he always had to be so professional, even when he was just at home relaxing.

America walked up behind him, about to ask what he was looking for, when England straightened back up. He wasn't facing America, and must have not noticed that he was there yet. America smiled as he realized just how much taller he was than England. There was about a six-inch difference between them, which had shocked England when he had returned from a trip that had lasted several years longer than intended. After that, England would often be found giving him a look of, "How dare you get taller than me." But now that America thought about it, that look of disdain he always gave him was pretty cute.

With a mischievous smile, he put his arms around England as he pulled him right up against his chest. He felt England stiffen like a board, but was a little surprised when he didn't immediately try to push him away. America whispered, "Good morning, England," as he lowered his head down on his shoulder. He felt England shiver against him, the only sound from him being a little sound that was similar to a gasp. America hugged him a little tighter, and he felt England stiffen even further. America could tell that England wasn't exactly comfortable, but was still surprised by the lack of a fight he was putting up. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, England was realizing that he did feel something for him.

"…off."

America cocked his head, not sure what England has just said. "What?" he asked, once again resulting in a shiver from England as he talked into his ear.

"Get… off."

Even during normal circumstances, America wasn't the best one at listening to orders. He always liked to bend the rules just enough so they didn't break, just so he could see what fun he could get away with. Especially with England. So, knowing he'd probably regret it later, he grazed England's ear with his lips as he spoke, making him jump. America could feel the blood rushing up to his face and ears, making him grin. "And if I don't?"

The breath rushed out of him as he felt England's elbow lodge directly into his stomach. Taking the hint, America released him as he backed up, coughing as he clutched yet another sore spot on his body. He looked up just in time to see a very pissed off England, his face dark red. He was breathing hard, once again straightening out his clothes as he always did when he was stressed. "If you _ever_ do that again," he growled, his green eyes deadly serious, "I swear to God, I _will castrate you."_

Suddenly, America was much more willing to listen to what England had to say. Never had England threatened him with such a thing. Threats of slapping, he got them just about every time the two of them were together. But _castration_? That was definitely a new one.

Now that he thought about it, maybe he had gone just a little bit too far. _Maybe_.

x-x-x-x-x

For England, it was never too hard to be angry with America, seeing as he made it so incredibly easy. But this was almost the most angry he had ever been with him. Not even the time where he had spilled his coffee all over him and one of his best suits had made him this angry. Here he was, just holding him captive as he was trying to _seduce_ him. He felt his lips on his ear, making him suddenly lose the ability to breathe. He wasn't able to remember how to inhale or exhale as America spoke, sending chills through him as his breath caressed his skin.

Suddenly, he miraculously remembered how to move. Gritting his teeth, he sent his elbow flying back, feeling it ram into America with a nice 'thump.' Thankfully, this make America let him loose, allowing him to take a few desperately needed steps away from him. He quickly spun around to face his attempted rapist to see him bent over holding his stomach. England had some satisfaction that he had been able to harm him, glad that he had been able to escape from his grasp. Yet, at the same time, he was upset with himself for having put him in that pain. He quickly shoved that thought out of his mind, focusing on his anger at the situation America had put him in. He wasn't going to let America do that to him and get away with it.

"If you ever do that again," he said, trying to get his breath back, "I swear to God, I _will castrate you_." America looked surprised at this threat as if he thought he really didn't deserve such a thing. Perhaps threat of castration _was_ a little bit extreme, but, by God, didn't he have the right to defend himself from such attempts? He had the right to threaten America, the stupid git! No one could do such a thing to Great Britain and get away with it!

"Dude," America said, straightening himself back up. "Sorry, man, but seriously, you need to chill."

"_I_ need to 'chill'?" England said, outraged. "I'm not the one who just tried to take advantage of someone! If anyone needs to relax, it's _you_!"

"Well, at least _I'm _not the one who hits people all the time and threatens to cut their balls off!" America retorted.

"If you didn't want to be hit," England yelled back, "then you should know better than to make a move on _another man_, you wanker!"

"I wasn't trying to make a move on you, dude!" America said defensively, only making England even more pissed off. "I was just—"

"_You were trying to snog with my bloody ear_!"

America gave him a dumfounded look. "Wh-what! No I wasn't, you idiot!" he said, his face reddening. "I was just trying to saying hi!"

"Normal people don't say 'Hi' by sneaking up on someone like that!" England growled. "And I swear to God, if you do something, _anything_, like that ever again, you can expect to never see me again!"

America became abruptly silent as he just stared at England. He was looking at England's face as if trying to tell if he was actually being serious or just saying it to make him shut up. Once he saw that England wasn't fooling with him, he looked away from him, his blue eyes angry. "Sorry," he muttered, now refusing to look at him.

Usually, England would be overjoyed that America had finally decided to stop talking for once in his life. But, to his resentment, it made him feel awkward and upset. He looked at him and had the sudden urge to hit him for moping pathetically like that when he had obviously done something that wasn't acceptable. But what America said about him hitting people all the time suddenly struck a chord with him. Irritated, he decided not to strike him.

Diverting his eyes from America, becoming sickened by his pouting, he decided to speak. "Listen," England said, crossing his arms to still the temptation to smack America across the face. "I'm just not comfortable with you… doing such things. I'm willing to stay if you are able to _control_ yourself." He let himself have a quick glimpse at him, curious about his response. America was now looking at him, his eyes wide with wonder. A smile crawled across his face, sending a jolt through England. He suddenly realized just how much he liked it when America smiled. And along with that sudden realization, he gave himself a mental slap to the face. He just felt sorry for the idiot, that's all! Most sane people didn't like to see people sad, right? So it was just normal to feel happy that others were happy, right? Right! "Now, get out of the kitchen," England said dismissively. "I was going to make us some food."

The smile on America's face suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a grimace. "You're going to _cook_?"

And he wondered why England hit him all the time. Stupid git.

x-x-x-x-x

America sat on the couch once again, pouting about how England was going to make his crappy British food. He had tried to convince him to not make anything, saying that he did have some food stored in his house, but England had said that he had wanted to eat something that wasn't packed full of heart-stopping cholesterol. So, instead, they were going to eat the blandest food on the whole freaking planet. And not only that, he had been chased out of his own kitchen! England always had always had the bad habit to take control of everything, even if it didn't belong to him.

But at least he wasn't going to leave. Even with his house being taken over, America guessed that he could live with it, as long an England was around.

With America's pouting, he suddenly noticed England's book lying on the table where he had left it the night before. England had been acting kind of suspicious and uber secretive, so America still didn't know what the book was or why England had brought it with him. Listening in to make sure that England was still busy in the kitchen, he moved over to the chair England had fallen asleep in last night to examine his book. At first, America had absolutely no idea what the title of the book was. The writing on the cover was worn with age, making it hard to read. Along with this, on further inspection, America realized that it was a different language. For a second, he felt the sting of defeat, depressed that he couldn't get any more information out of it. Then America remembered: Google Translate! He always used it for all of the other languages that weren't awesome enough to be known by him—meaning every language besides American English. So, after a minute or two, he returned to the chair with his laptop in hand. Once he had found his way to Google Translate, he quickly typed in the title of the book. The site recognized the language as Latin, giving him a result that surprised him: _Book of Charms_. Charms? As in spells? Why had England thought that using his creepy Black Magic would be necessary here? Now even more curious than before, America opened up to the page that he had marked last night.

It was obvious upon looking at the page that England had been trying to figure out something about one particular spell. He had several parts marked and underlined, and several annotations that he had somehow squeezed into the minuscule margins of the page. He was sure that England could read them, but America was lost, not wanting to read the tiny letters. Moving on, he typed in the spell, not sure of what to be expecting. He felt blood rush to his face upon reading the translation. _The object of my eye, make him love me. No others shall have him, make him mine_.

It was a freaking love spell! What the crap was going on? Why was England looking into this so badly? What was he trying to do?

"America?"

"Gah!" America cried, slamming his computer shut. He looked up, preparing himself to face the wrath of England, but was able to calm himself once he realized that England was just calling him from the kitchen. "Yeah, s'up, England?" he called back in the most innocent, non-reading-books-that-weren't-his voice he could manage.

"Breakfast is nearly ready, and I have no bloody idea where you keep your dishes!"

Even though America was so confused about what England was trying to pull off, he was able to laugh about how frustrated England sounded. He could already see how his thick brows were furrowed with irritation. "'Kay, be there in a sec'," America called back as he closed the book and put it back as close to the position he had left it before. He then quickly returned his laptop to its plug in and ran to the kitchen to show England where he kept his plates and such. As he walked, he tried to think of the best way to ask why he would be so interested about love spells. But as he thought about it, he realized that it definitely was not going to be an easy thing to do.

But he had to try, didn't he?

x-x-x-x-x

The majority of the day went pretty much without much incident. During breakfast, America had tried to not say too much about England's food, but he was not great at hiding his opinions on his face. Every time he took a bite of food, his face would get screwed up, but then he'd try to cover his obvious dislike with a, "Mmm!" or, "It's good." But England, having raised America, knew that all of the compliments meant, "Part of me just died right now because I ate this." Sure, he had gone through centuries of hearing people talk about how his food sucked compared to everyone else's, but it still hurt to know that people didn't really appreciate his work. Once breakfast was over, England went back to studying his book, trying to decipher how to undo the spell he'd put on America. After all that happened the day before, he just decided to ignore America's constant stares and just focus on his book. He figured that the sooner he figured out how to make America "normal" again, the sooner he wouldn't have to put op with his stares any longer.

"So," America said once they had been sitting there in silence for about fifteen minutes. England knew he had never been that much of a fan of quietness—he liked things as loud and as exciting as they could be. "What're you doing?"

"Studying something," England answered. He still hadn't told America that his infatuation with him had been caused by a spell gone wrong, and figured that it was better if America didn't know. Knowing him, he'd probably freak out about it and tell everyone he knew about it. That was the last thing England needed. Everyone would believe that he had done it on purpose, and everything would just get out of hand. He shuddered inwardly as he thought of that humiliation if _France_ found out. He'd never be off the hook if word got out. No, it was far better if America knew nothing of this mistake.

America paused for a while, making England glad that he had decided to drop the subject.

"Why are you studying a love spell?"

England dropped his book, looking up at America in complete shock. _He knew?_

"Wh-what are you talking about?" England asked as he quickly picked his book back up. He wanted to shoot himself because of his reaction that had made it completely obvious that America had hit what he was doing right on the nose. He could have at least _lied_.

"Dude, it's called Google Translate," America said. "So. What are you trying to do with that spell?"

England just stared at him, trying to figure out a convincing lie. He was usually able to come up with magnificent excuses on the spot, but no possibilities came to him now. He just sat there, looking like a complete idiot. "Uh." Oh, such a great way to start an explanation. "Well… you see…"

"I'm waiting." England would have yelled at him, but then he remembered that he had done the exact thing to him when he had been interrogating America.

"I'm looking into this because…" England paused, hoping that a brilliant lie would suddenly some to him, save him from the truth he wanted to avoid from uncovering. But nothing came to his rescue. "Because…er, well…"

"If you're doing it to make me love you, there's no need for that."

England felt blood rush to his face, struck by the seriousness in America's voice. He looked at him, America's blue eyes piercing.

"England, I already love you."

The breath caught in England's throat, once again forgetting how to breathe. That was when he broke. "I know!" England hissed. "That's the problem!"

He could tell that his words were like a punch to the face for America as he saw him shrink into the couch. The look of seriousness deteriorated into one of being absolutely crushed. "What?"

"I meant to make you sick, you idiot!" England cried, putting as much malice as he could manage into his words. "I hated you for giving me all of your crap, and I wanted to make you pay! But I did the wrong spell, and it made this happen!"

England felt something in him being pained by America's expression of sadness, but he let his anger overwhelm it. He had no need for guilt right now. "Hate?" America whispered.

"Yes, you bloody idiot!" England yelled. "And I still hate you! I hate how you don't respect me, how you don't respect _anyone_ but yourself! I hate how you blame everyone but yourself! I hate—!"

"_Shut up!_"

England quieted as he took the time to really looked at America. Through his anger, he had just seen him sitting there, all other details blocked out by his filter of rage. But now that he wasn't yelling, he suddenly noticed that America was shaking. He looked up at his face and felt his blood chill—America was crying. Even as a child, America wasn't one to be found crying very often. England felt guilt well up in him. He had meant to insult him, just to offend him. He had never meant to hurt him this bad.

"You know, England," America said, his voice much quieter than usual, sending chills through the room. "Even with all we've been through, even after you pushing me away after the Revolutionary War, I have never once hated you."

His words were like a dagger to the heart. England wanted to die. "America."

America stood up, waving his arm violently at him. "I'm done," he said, glaring at him with disdain. "You can continue being a douche all you want. But I'm done."

England jumped up to try to stop America from leaving, but he was once again reminded of how strong America had grown over the years as he shrugged off all of his attempts. So England was left to watch powerlessly as he went off to his room, hurt more than he had ever seen before.

And it was his fault. Again.

He was a real bloody idiot.

"God dammit," he hissed under his breath, storming back to his seat. What else was he supposed to do? America wasn't going to listen to him now that he said that he hated him. He had dug a deep hole that was going to extremely hard to get out of, if he could get out of it at all. But what frustrated him even more were his _emotions_. Why was he so damn upset? He and America fought all the time; he was never bothered by it before. Why now? Why, dammit!

What had America done to him?

x-x-x-x-x

Aww! D': Poor America! Poor England! D: Sorry it's all emo! But it had to happen!

Please review! I'll love you if you do! :D


	3. Chapter 3

Waah! Thanks for the reviews! :D I appreciate them so much!

Also, in your reviews, could you guys tell me if England sounds British enough? I'm very American, and my only exposure to British terminology is Harry Potter… so all I know is 'git' and 'snogging' and 'Merlin's beard!' XD Most of what I've used has been what I've learned from a website that has a list of British slang. So, if any of you live in the UK, just give me some insight about that! I'd appreciate it tons!

Alright, I hope you guys enjoy! Review please! :)

x-x-x-x-x

It had been ages since England had been home last. With France being an idiot like usual—stupid frog—England had been out at war for much longer than he had anticipated. He was glad to finally be home for multiple reasons. It had been such a long time since he had been able to just sit back and relax. And he hadn't seen America for years either. He had always been wondering about him while he had been at war, wondering how he was developing as a country, what he was doing. Maybe he was just about his height by now. He was excited to see how much more mature he had grown over the many years.

"America!" England called, looking around for his little brother. "America, I'm back!"

"England?"

At first, England didn't recognize the voice at all. He thought maybe one of his servants or generals were there taking care of America until he arrived. Then a man came around the corner, one that England didn't recognize. He was about to question him about why he had invaded his house when he actually looked him over. Blue eyes, light brown hair, a cocky grin that screamed confidence. England, green eyes widening with shock, realized that the man in front of him, the man that was _taller than him_, was America.

"A-America?" England stammered, barely able to believe it. Last time he had seen America, he had been just over a meter tall. He had been so little! But now he was forced to look up to look America's face to face. He had grown so much in just a short span of a few years!

"Hey! What's up British dude?" America said happily as he threw his arms around England. England was shocked by America's strength and felt like his lungs were being crushed by the force of his hug. He was still so stunned—how was America taller than him? How could he have grown so much in such a short period of time? Then, realizing he was being rude, he did his best to return the hug, seeing as his arms were pinned to his sides by America's strong embrace.

"It's been too long, America," England choked out, truly happy to see his 'little' brother. He had missed him and his excitement about everything. He could really use some happiness after all he had been through the past few years.

But the peace quickly faded away between them. England had been sitting while drinking tea, trying to settle into one of his very few moments of peace, when America came up to him. His expression was oddly solemn, but England took no heed to this. America sometimes just had weird things to say. "Yes?" England asked, knowing America had something on his mind.

"England," he said, his voice pained. "England, I…want to become independent."

England looked at him, about to yell at him for joking about such a thing. But once he saw America's face, he knew that he meant what he was saying. He barely heard the shatter of his teacup as his world shattered along with it.

He wanted to leave him, just like everyone else had.

x-x-x-x-x

England's eyes flew open, his heart pounding. He was breathing hard, a cold sweat on his face. With a groan, he threw his arm over his eyes, angry about his dream. Of all the things he had to dream of right now, he had to dream about how America left him all those years ago. He hated those memories, hated the pain, hated how whenever he saw America, he would be reminded all over again of how truly alone he was.

Suddenly, England realized that he was lying down. He removed his arm from his face to examine where he was. With a shock, he discovered that he was once again in America's room. A quick look around showed that America was nowhere to be seen. He growled as he sat up, frustrated. Even after England had been a complete ass, America had brought him in here to sleep again for the night. Meaning that he was sleeping on the couch. Again. Why did he have to make it so damn hard to be angry at him?

Begrudgingly, England forced himself to get up out of the bed. He figured that, since America was being such an idiotically nice person, he should apologize. After all, it wasn't America's fault that he was having these feelings. Once he actually thought about it, England had made him have these feelings for him and—even though he did it on accident—it was wrong to that he hated him so much. He quickly forced himself to stop thinking along these lines, seeing as it was just making him feel even worse.

Once he made it to the living room, England saw America huddled on the couch in a way that he was amazed he hadn't broken his neck already. He had absolutely no idea how he had fallen asleep like that. England had always thought that it was just a little kid thing, but America had apparently never grown out of that stage. With a sigh, he walked up to the couch.

"America," he said, grabbing him by the shoulder. "America, wake up."

"Guhh…" America shoved his face into the cushions, making England even more annoyed. One, he was ignoring him. Two, the idiot was going to asphyxiate himself if he didn't get his face out of there soon.

"America!" England said more forcefully, trying to shake him awake. America gave a few more weak protests until he finally decided to give up and start paying attention to him.

"Wha d'you wan?" he slurred, wiping his mouth. "Whuh, you wanna say you hate how I sleep too?"

England's stomach twinged with guilt. "I don't want you to sleep on the couch, you gi…" He cut off his insult, figuring if he wanted to actually apologize, he shouldn't start it by calling him rude names. "Go sleep in your bed."

"You're the guest, idiot," America muttered. There was just enough light in the room for England to see that America's eyes were just barely half open. "Juss go back n' sleep."

"I'd actually be able to fit on the couch!" England argued, trying to pull America up by his arm. "You're too tall for it. I don't even know how you were able to fall asleep like that."

"It's pretty easy… I juss close my eyes n'…"

"Go sleep in your bed, idiot!"

America glared at him groggily. "Make me."

England huffed. "Fine," he growled. He walked to the other side of the couch, grabbed him under the arms and promptly began to drag America off of the couch.

"Gah! D-dude!" America said as he fell to the ground, England suddenly remembering just how bloody heavy he was. "What the crap, man?"

"Bloody hell, you need to stop eating so many hamburgers," England complained as he continued trying to drag America to his room with a nonexistent amount of success.

"Hey, just leave me alone, dude!" America said, trying to get out of England's grasp. But England wasn't going to give up that easily. With all of the battles England had been through, he knew how to get someone in a hold that they wouldn't be able to get out of very easily.

"Go to your room, dammit!" England grunted as he fought against America's protests. Even though he had a very good hold on him, he knew he wasn't going to be able to hold on for much longer. America was much stronger than he was.

"Why?" America asked, still putting up a huge struggle. "Why can't you just sleep in my bed?"

"Why can't you sleep in _your _bed?"

"I'm not going to be a jerk and make you sleep on the couch!" America argued, still trying to escape his hold. "That would be totally un-heroic!"

England held fast to him, trying to think of how to solve this problem. Neither wanted the other to sleep on the couch. How could they both get what they wanted? Suddenly, England remembered America's suggestion that he had completely shot down. He still wasn't all that fond of it, but… it seemed like that was going to be the only way to make them stop fighting.

He just hoped that America wouldn't get the wrong idea.

x-x-x-x-x

America was still trying to get out of England's hold, not wanting England to win this fight, or any fight for that matter. He was not going to make England sleep on the couch! It would be rude and it so totally wouldn't be what a hero would do!

"America," England said, his voice stressed. "I don't want you sleeping on the couch… and you don't want me sleeping on the couch either."

"Well, I'm glad we got that figured out," America grunted sarcastically, trying yet again to shrug him off, yet again failing.

"I have a compromise," England said, not sounding too happy about said 'compromise.' "If you promise to keep to your side and not bother me, we can… sleep… in the bed… together."

America froze. Carefully, he turned his head to make sure that England wasn't just being a jerk and yanking his chain. But when he saw England's reddening face, he knew that he wasn't joking. He was really saying that they could sleep together. America felt his face blush at the thought of it. "R-really?' he asked, barely able to believe it.

"Don't think that I want to sleep with you!" England said a little bit too quickly, making him smirk. "I just think that this way we both win! That's all! Nothing more!"

England finally released him, letting America stand as he rolled his shoulders, flinching slightly as they popped. "Okay," he said, his mood immediately shooting up. "Sounds good to me." It actually sounded much better than 'good' to America—it sounded like a dream come true. But he knew that he wouldn't be able to do anything with England besides just sleep.

But it sure could be a start.

x-x-x-x-x

England threw as many pillows as he could possibly find in America's house in the center of the bed, making a very clear border between America's side of the bed and his. He could feel America watching him as he did this with a look of bewilderment, but he just ignored it. He was _not_ going to let America have any ideas tonight. They were just going to sleep in the same bed, nothing else; and England wanted to make sure that that's how it stayed.

"England, if you keep on doing that, there won't be any room for us to sleep," America complained.

Taking time to stop throwing pillows on the bed, he looked at his handiwork. There were a few too many pillows, but England just shrugged. "Just stay on your side of the bed, okay?"

"Sure thing!" America said as he plopped down on the bed, making some of the pillows bounce out of place. England sighed—he'd have to fix it again.

England climbed into the bed, doing his best to keep a good distance between him and America. He quickly rearranged the pillows once again, making sure that the border was incredibly clear. America was looking at him as if what he was doing was completely ridiculous. Okay, maybe he was working a little bit too hard on this. So what? He wanted to make sure that America understood that he didn't want anything going on between them. They were just in the same bed, that's all.

With a sigh, England finally decided that the border was as good as it was going to get. "Good night, America," he said as he pulled his blanket up to his chin.

"Night, England!" America said, turning on his side, thankfully away from England. It seemed like he had gotten the point. England began to breathe deeply, feeling himself fall to sleep. He hoped that they would be able to sleep all the night through with no awkward situations.

But, knowing America was America, he didn't get his hopes up too high.

x-x-x-x-x

America opened his bleary eyes, his heart beat rapidly increasing. Nothing was making sense. He was trying to remember how he had gotten here, trying to figure out why he didn't remember anything. The room he was in now was dark and smelled eerily like bleach. Everything was far too clean, making him feel sick. While looking at his surroundings, his eyes fell on a mass in the middle of the room that he couldn't identify. It was taking him too long to try to figure out what it was, so he began to focus on how he was going to get out of here.

While he was trying to decipher where a door or a window was, desperately looking for any way to escape, he heard a shuffling sound behind him. America jumped and suddenly realized that he was tied in a chair with thin wire-like rope. Tied to a chair that was bolted to the floor. What the hell was going on?

"Kol kol kol…"

America froze. He knew that cold voice; he could recognize that laugh anywhere.

Russia.

"Russia, what the hell are you doing?" America said, trying to sound calm even though he was on the verge of screaming in terror.

"It's about time you woke up," Russia hummed, still hiding behind America out of his vision. His voice was still in its usual high pitch, sounding like it belonged to an innocent child. America could feel his breath on the back of his neck that smelled strongly of vodka. It sent chills through his body. "You've been rude, making England wait for you this long."

America desperately tried to turn around, but his restraints dug viciously into his skin. "Where's England?" he cried. "What did you do?"

"Where is he?" Russia asked, giving an ice cold chuckle. Finally, Russia came into his field of vision. America felt his body go frigid. All over Russia's coat and scarf were splotches of sickly red blood. In his hands was the pipe he always carried with him, ominously dripping with blood. "He's right there."

Slowly, very slowly, America turned his vision back to the mass he had been looking at. With his eyes now adjusted to the dark, he realized that the mass was in a green suit. A green suit that was soaked in blood.

"England!" America yelled, ignoring the pain as he strained against his restraints. "England!" He couldn't breathe as he realized that England wasn't moving. "Oh God."

"Hmm." Slowly, Russia sauntered over to England's body, his boots leaving bloody foot prints behind him. "How rude, being unconscious from blood loss when we have company." He lifted his blood stained pipe above his head, a deadly sweet smile on his face.

"NO!" America cried as he watched Russia ram his pipe into England's ribs. A crack emanated from the hit, echoing through the room as England made a painful gasping noise.

"Wakey wakey," Russia cooed as he nudged England's face with his pipe. "It's rude to ignore guests."

"Stop it!" America screamed, his throat closing off. "Stop it! Don't hurt him!"

"…Mer'ca…"

America stopped breathing, just barely able to hear England speak. At first, he wasn't even sure he had heard him talk, his voice sounding so choked. "England?" he croaked.

"Mer'ca," England slurred as his body began to move slightly. His blonde head tilted up, and America was just able to see one green eye peering at him. The other was swollen shut. "Mer'ca… you need… to go…"

Russia looked down at him, a disturbed smile still on his face. "You know, England," he said sweetly, "I'm getting bored of you. You were so much more fun when you were screaming and begging." England tilted his head back down to look at Russia's shoes. With what sounded like a great amount of effort, he spat on his feet with a mixture of saliva and blood. Russia continued to stare down at him, his expression staying the same. He then pulled his pipe back up above his head. "I hope you weren't too fond of your skull," he said, his voice having an edge of annoyance.

America started screaming then, not sure of all he was saying. He was begging, pleading, for Russia to not hurt him. But he knew that it was hopeless. He sat there, screaming, the only sound he could hear being England's voice.

"America. America. America."

Russia's pipe swung down, and America felt himself die along with England.

x-x-x-x-x

"America," England said, trying to shake him awake. America must have been having an interesting dream, because he was muttering nonstop. He was being so annoying! Why did he have to have all of these stupid habits when he was sleeping? Why couldn't he just sleep like a normal person?

"America!" he said again, finally succeeding in waking him up. To his surprise, America woke up with a gasp, nearly sitting straight up upon awakening. England didn't notice until now that he was shaking, his breathing shallow and rapid. "America?" England said, sincerely worried. America usually didn't show such cowardice unless they were watching a scary movie.

Abruptly, America threw his arms around England, making his face flush. What was it with the hugging? England had never been a fan of physical contact, yet America did it all the time. Plus the border he had worked so hard on had now been swept aside by America's twitchiness. England was about to shove him off when he realized that America had buried his face in his shoulder that was becoming wet. America was crying again.

"W-what's wrong?" England asked, trying to re-adjust himself so they were in a more upright position. "What happened?"

"I… I… I…" America was trying to talk, but he couldn't speak through his sobs. "I… Russia… he…"

"Russia?" England asked, surprised. What did he have to do with this? "What about Russia?"

"He… k-killed you!"

England looked down at him, a little shock going through him. He had had a dream about Russia killing him? It did explain why he was so distressed. "It was just a dream, America," England said soothingly, patting his back awkwardly. When he had been a child, it had been easy to comfort him. All you had to do was make them believe that everything was going to be okay, and they'd believe you no matter what. But comforting another grown man, England had no idea on how to do that.

"England," America choked, wrapping his arms tighter around him. "England… I was so scared…"

He looked down at him, still not sure of how to handle the situation. He remembered when America was little, singing would usually help him feel better. Not having any other ideas of how to console him, he began to sing the song he always had when America was just a few years old.

"_Hush little baby, don't say a word,_

_England's going to buy you a mocking bird._

_And if that mocking bird won't sing,_

_England's going to buy you a diamond ring."_

England continued to sing softly, finding himself toy with America's soft light brown hair as he had when he was a child. He felt America's cries soften until they eventually stopped altogether as he finally calmed down. England would have pushed him off back to his side of the bed by now, but there was something calming about America's warmth huddled next to him. America's head rested just below his shoulder, his arms draped around his neck. His breath had slowed down as he had fallen back to sleep peacefully. England convinced himself that he just didn't want to disturb him, seeing as he had just had a really bad nightmare. That's all.

Closing his eyes, England left one hand on America's back as the other continued to play with his hair. With him so close, he couldn't help but take in the scent of him. He smelled like a café, the smell of coffee and doughnuts prominent. Surprisingly enough, he didn't smell all that much like hamburgers like England thought he would. Instead, he smelled of cinnamon and sugar. England breathed him in, enjoying his scent. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed before that he smelled so good. So delicious…

England's eyes flashed open as the thought hit him like a Taser. How could he ever think of America as smelling _delicious_? With a groan, he closed his eyes again, trying to busy his mind with something else. There was no way that he could ever let himself think like that again. It wasn't right.

What in the world was America doing to him? He knew that America was in love with him right now because of his spell gone wrong. But England had no reason to be returning those feelings. He was still very hurt from the Revolution, and still often thought of America as a brother. They had gotten over most of their past arguments, and were usually fairly civilized with each other. But, even with most of their issues having been smoothed over, England still had scars that were sometimes re-opened.

America murmured something as he snuggled closer to England, burying his face in the crook of England's neck. England felt the blood rush to his face as he felt America's breath tickle his neck. But unlike before, he found his warm breath pleasant on his skin. England felt America's cowlick, Nantucket, brush against his chin. England twirled it between his fingers, liking the fine texture of his hair. England hummed quietly to himself, letting his mind calm down. He wasn't going to let his confused feelings concern him right now. He was going to get rid of the curse soon, and everything would get back to normal. He wouldn't have to try to figure out how he felt anymore. He could back to his normal life.

Alone.

He tried to convince himself that being alone would be better than having to deal with connections to other people. Life would be much easier without feelings for others. But in the end, he wasn't very good at lying even to himself.

x-x-x-x-x

The light in the room made America's closed eyes hurt. He tried to bury his face farther in his pillows so he could go back to sleep. But when he realized this his pillow felt an awful lot like skin, he looked up to see what was going on. America's eyes latched on England's face that was just a few inches away from his. He had cradled his head against his neck. America tried to put space between them so England wouldn't get upset with him, but then he realized that England's arms were around him, locking him in place. America flushed, having never expected to wake up to this. England was _holding_ him.

With a smile, America placed his head back against England's neck. He had no idea how long England would let this last, but he decided that he might as well enjoy it for as long as it lasted. He placed one light kiss on England's throat, then happily closed his eyes. "I love you, England," America whispered as he drifted back off to sleep.

x-x-x-x-x

Yay, it didn't end all emo this time! It's so cute! :D And can I just say that I loved writing with Russia? Russia is so fun, him being all cute and psycho. :) Please review! I'll love you if you do! :D


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks so much for the reviews! They always make my day! :) I'm so glad you guys like the story so far! I've loved writing it and getting to know the characters better! I had honestly forgotten how much fun it is to write fan fictions, and how much I love feedback. It's just a fun thing to do!

Also, sorry that this chapter took a little longer to update. I started writing it going one way, and then I completely changed it! This chapter has really been a tricky one for me! But I got it done, and have a lot of the next chapter planned too because of it! :D

So, without further ado, enjoy the chapter, and please review! :)

x-x-x-x-x

As soon as England woke up, his heart began to flutter. He was able to see light through his still closed eyelids, telling him that it was morning. And he still felt America's arms around his neck, his rhythmic breath running over his throat. A small smile crossed his face: he had slept like that the whole night. Without thinking, England's hand found its way back to America's hair, running his fingers through his fine strands. Why he did this, he still wasn't sure. It was probably just because he still felt some brotherly affection for him, that's all. And it _had_ been a long time since anyone had shown any affection for him. It was refreshing to not have people hate him for once.

Yawning, England took his hand away from America's head as he stretched his arms. He should get up and make them some breakfast.

"Why'd you stop?"

England jumped in surprise, letting out an undignified, "Eek!" as he opened his eyes to look down at America. His green eyes met America's blue ones which, to his dismay, looked wide awake.

"H-h-how long…?" England tried to ask, feeling his face flush.

"Have I been up?" America finished, pulling his arms from England's neck as he laid them on his chest to balance his chin on. "A few minutes. I was thinking of making waffles or something, but someone had been holding me." America's smirk widened as England felt his face grow hotter. "But I did like you messing with my hair. It felt nice."

England cleared his throat, taking his eyes off of America for a moment. He had thought that he had still been fast asleep, that being the only reason he had allowed himself to do such things with his hair. It had been stupid for him to not even open his eyes to make sure that America was asleep. Now he had given America a reason to have that smug smirk on his face. "I'm willing to make breakfast," England said, trying to sit up. He found this difficult though, seeing as America was now refusing to get off of him.

"You made it yesterday, so I can make it today," America said, pushing down slightly on England's chest. "You don't have to get up."

"I don't want to sleep in," England argued, still trying and failing to get up. "I have to keep reading."

"Just stay in bed," America retorted, easily keeping him pinned to the bed. "You'll be able to research better if you're well rested."

"America," England complained, not liking that he was being told what to do, especially by America. "Just let me—"

His sentence cut off as America lowered his face, barely a centimeter of space between the tips of their noses. America's blue eyes stared right into England's, rendering him unable to speak, barely able to breathe. "Stay," America purred, making England's chest tighten.

There was no way that England was going to win this one. "Fine," he answered, his heart thumping hard from how close America was to him. A sly smirk spread on America's lips as he continued to just stare into England's eyes. This really needed to stop though—England couldn't breathe.

"Your eyes are really green," America noticed, daring to let his face lean just slightly closer. On instinct, England tried to keep whatever space he could between them, but the pillow behind his head didn't have any more give.

"And yours are cerulean," England gasped, trying to remember how to inhale and exhale correctly. But upon him slowly regaining the ability to breathe, all he smelled was America. Sugar cinnamon, lattes, a hint of a bakery. His mouth watered—a sick part of him wanted to _taste_ him.

Suddenly, England was much more aware of America's lips just a few centimeters away from his.

"Go make food," England breathed, needing space _right now_. He felt something in him that he did not like, did not approve of, and was scared by as he felt it slowly taking control of him. He needed out of this situation now.

"What if I'm not hungry for food?"

England's skin prickled, feeling his whole body tense up. He needed to stop this. Now. He tried to knee America in the stomach to get him off, but missed, hitting America a little bit lower than intended. America's face went from one that rivaled even France's rape face to one of absolute pain as he rolled off of England, gripping his vital regions. "Gaah, oh God, why?" he squeaked, tears in his eyes. "Why would you effing do that, man?"

England took that opportunity to get up off the bed, rushing to the corner of the room next to the door. "I was just trying to get you off me," England said, trying to flatten his flyaway hair. "I… I didn't mean to hit you… _there_."

"Oh, God!" America groaned, rolling onto his side facing away from England. "It was with your freakin' knee too! Gaah, my balls!"

Stealthily, England sneaked out of the room, his face reddening. He was often angry with America, but he, being a British gentleman, knew better than to hit below the belt. It was cowardly and a completely unrefined way to fight back. Even though he was always irritated with America, he was quickly realizing that he didn't like to see him hurt.

As he thought about it, he had rarely ever seen America in pain. If nothing else, he was good at making people think he was doing fine. He was always able to roll with the punches and keep that annoying smile on his face, even during the most dire of situations. However, apparently a good kick to the groin can make any kind of man cry like a child.

Not knowing what else do to, England decided that he would once again make breakfast. He didn't mind cooking, and he figured that America wasn't in the mood to do anything at the moment.

x-x-x-x-x

As England was setting plates down on America's table, he heard him shuffling into the room. He had neglected to neaten his hair or change his clothes. Not even his glasses were straight. England felt uncomfortable as he saw that America was walking weirdly, meaning that he was still in pain. Yes, America had been trying to make a move on him, but England had never really meant to hurt him.

"Good morning," England said, trying to make the situation less awkward. He figured if he had just stayed quiet, that would have just strengthened the tension in the room. Besides, ignoring him wouldn't have been what a real gentleman would do.

America grunted in response, barely even looking at him. England cringed slightly. Still far too much tension in the room.

"America, about earlier…"

"Don't," America dismissed, shoving his light brown hair out of his face. "Just thinking about it makes it hurt worse."

England tried straightening out his shirt, even though it was already perfectly ironed. "I really am sorry about that," he said sincerely.

Carefully, America sat on the edge of the chair, slightly grimacing. "It's fine," America said after a moment. "I guess I did kind of deserved it."

Upon those words, England had to take a double-take, not sure if he had heard right at first. Then, deciding he had heard correctly, he just stared at America for a moment. He said that he actually _deserved it_? Since when did America actually come out and admit that he was in the wrong?

"What's for food?" America asked, his spirits seeming to improve. England had to keep himself from rolling his eyes—America was always able to recover from things quickly.

"Well, I tried to find your waffle maker, but with your bloody mess of a kitchen…" England trailed off as he grabbed the food from off the counter next to the stove top. "I made a simple breakfast of just eggs and toast." He laid the dishes on the table, hoping—but doubting—that this would be enough for America's huge stomach.

America looked down at the food curiously, then looked innocently back up at England. "So, where's your breakfast?"

England cocked his head, confused. "Eh?"

"Wait. You made this for two people?" America asked, sounding surprised. "This is less than what I eat by myself."

A clicking sound came from England's throat. _Bloody wanker!_ he thought as he clenched his fists as to not begin throwing objects at America's stupid face. England sat down in his chair angrily, trying to calm himself out of his rising rage. He took a slice of toast and one fried egg, and then pushed the remaining food—five slices of toast and seven eggs—towards America. "There," he said, doing a very poor job of hiding his irritated tone. "All yours."

_Bloody git_.

x-x-x-x-x

England was yet again sitting in the chair that he had claimed as his own while he continued to study his spell book. America sat in his normal spot on the couch, wanting to be with England, even if he ignored him like usual. It had been a few hours since that morning's incident, so America had gotten over his pain by now. He was always able to heal and get over illnesses miraculously fast, which tended to irritate England, seeing as it usually took him longer to heal than most countries. But he really did bring that upon himself—England never forgot how people hurt him, and would hold that grudge forever. He really just always hurt himself, but refused to see that.

"Any luck?" America asked, hoping to start up a conversation. It felt weird just sitting in a room with someone else and not talking.

Not even uttering a word, England flicked his green eyes up at him, more or less telling him to shut the crap up. Sulking, America quieted down again. So he was still angry about everything that had gone on so far today. Okay, yeah, he had kind of acted like a complete creeper this morning. But he thought that England would have been okay with that! He _had_ been stroking his hair, which, for normal people, translates into affection. Apparently not for England. And America hadn't asked him to take practically nothing for breakfast! How was he supposed to know that it was normal for England to eat so little? It wasn't like they ate together all the time! The only times that England would even think of asking him to go with him somewhere was when England wanted to go to a pub and get completely wasted. That had been their only way of actually communicating for the past several decades—fight each other, ignore each other, and then get drunk.

Wanting to stay in the same room that England was in, America just stretched out on the couch, letting his feet hang over the edge. Then, without thinking, he began to hum to himself, not paying attention to what the exact tune was. He felt England's eyes on him, and thought maybe he had been humming his national anthem, and that it was getting on his nerves. But when he turned his head to see what the matter was, he was surprised to see England's face slightly reddened. America finally listened to what he was humming, and blushed too.

It was the lullaby England had used last night.

"Bathroom," England said quickly as he jumped up and left the room, his spell book just barely managing to land on the table. America would have tried to stop him, but by the time that he had been able to sit up, England was long gone. He tried to figure out why he would be so embarrassed, but he wasn't really able to come up with a reason besides England was kind of strange.

America went to straighten out England's book that had fallen open face down, crumpling some of the frail-looking pages. He picked it up and meant to just lay it back down, but his curiosity took the best of him once again. Knowing England wasn't going to be back for a while, America flipped through the pages of the spell book, intrigued by the language he didn't understand. Not feeling like going to get his laptop for translation, America found a spell and just stared at it as if he'd understand what it said if he did this for long enough. He stuck his thumb in the book to mark his spot as he continued to flip through the pages. As he was doing this, a paper that must have been stuck in between some of the pages fell out into his lap. A quick glance at it revealed that it had a circle decorated with runes on it. Cautiously, America picked it up to examine it further. The circle held no clues to him as to what it was, so he flipped it over. On the back, England's handwriting had scrawled a short phrase on the paper:

"_For emergencies_."

Suddenly, America remembered one of the times that he had walked in on England doing some of his freaky Black Magic. The room had been dark, but he had been able to see that there had been a circle on the floor in the room. Taking another look, America realized what it was—it was the circle used for spells. So England had brought it with him so he could just use it if he needed to do a spell really fast. He guessed it made sense, but it didn't make it any less creepy.

Creepy, yet intriguing. He wondered what would happen if he tried to do spell. Would anything happen? He felt a twinge of nervousness, seeing as even England could mess up at doing spells. But he was America! With a smile, he decided to go for it—he was the hero! He couldn't mess up!

He quickly looked over the spell he had been eying, and roughly figured out how to say it. Taking a readying breath, he prepared himself. He figured for the spell to work, the user would have to have a face in their mind. He tried to think of someone, and immediately thought of England. He thought that it might be a bad idea to use his first spell on him, but then he thought of what would happen if he actually got a spell right. Wouldn't England think he was cool if we were able to do magic? Then they could do magic together! Once again throwing caution to the wind, he had England's face in his mind as he began the chant.

"_Qui putat se tam fortem, illum ad risum._"

A tiny shudder went through the room, but nothing else really happened. America looked around as if a huge neon sign saying, "Congrats, you just did your first spell!" would pop up out of nowhere. Nothing obvious showed up, and America wondered if he had done something wrong. He had never done anything like that before, so he wouldn't doubt it if he hadn't done it right.

America nearly had a heart attack when he suddenly heard hysterical laughing start in another room. He was trying to think of who could have broken into his house when England stumbled into the room, clenching his stomach. He was bent over, tears in his eyes, _laughing_. The sight made absolutely no sense to him. England was always so serious and so stuffy. But there he was, laughing like a maniac. It was actually really freaking America out.

"Wh-what…?" America stammered, trying to figure out what was so funny.

England kept on laughing as he struggled to stand up straight, "Ah, oh God, I.. I can't breathe!" he roared, gasping between laughs. "I… I don't know…what's happening!"

America continued staring at England, absolutely terrified. England constantly ignoring him, he could deal with, no problem. But England being happy and laughing? It was scaring the freaking crap out of him. He looked around trying to figure out what was going on, but then remembered the spell book. Apparently, the spell he used caused a horrible case of laughter.

England must have noticed that the spell book had found its way to America, because he quickly walked over and snatched it away. "You bloody idiot!" he chocked between laughs. "Why?"

"Dude, I didn't know!" America said defensively. "I didn't know it was going to make you freakin' psycho!"

England was trying to flip through the pages, but it looked like he was having extreme difficulty with this as his body was shaking with the insane laughter. He threw the book back to America, pointing at a spell. "S-Say that!" he said, laughing louder than ever.

America read over it, and looked nervously up at England. "But what if it doesn't…?"

"_Do it_!" England yelled. America got scared by the shade of red his face was turning. Was he seriously not able to breathe?

"_Desine de alica_!" America cried, another shudder going through the room. England kept on laughing for a few seconds, slowly quieting down. The laughs were quickly replaced by gasps for air, his face still a frightening shade of red.

"Idiot," he gasped as he fell over onto the couch. America tensed up as his body fell directly onto his lap. He looked down at England's face. His eyes were closed shut, brows furrowed, his blonde hair plastered to his skin with sweat. His chest was moving rapidly with hard breaths. America's stomach was churning with guilt—he had been an idiot for trying something so stupid. All he had done was just make him have a laughing fit that had made him pass out. What if America had picked a spell that made his heart stop or that made him kill himself? He had been so stupid, stupid, _stupid_!

"I'm sorry," America said, brushing England's hair out of his face. A slight grunt escaped him, but he didn't make any attempt to stop him. America pulled England into an upright position to try to help him breathe better, laying him against his chest. This caused another upset grunt to come from England.

"Stop touching me," England muttered, his voice raspy. "You did this, idiot."

"And I'm trying to make sure that you're okay," America said, trying to steady him so he didn't fall over. "Can you breathe all right?"

"Yes, you twit," England grumbled, trying to sit up on his own. But as he tried to move, he began coughing, clenching his stomach again. America could feel England's self-hatred emanating from him.

"Just calm down," America said, pulling him back to lie against him. "I just nearly made you die."

"That's the point, you bloody wanker!" England said, once again trying to get up. America just wrapped his arms around England's chest, preventing him from moving. He felt England give a frustrated huff, but he stopped trying to struggle. He knew that America wasn't going to let him go now.

"Chillax, man!' America said. "I just wanna make sure you're okay, that's all."

England just stopped talking as he ended his attempts to get away. He seemed to actually be trying to settle in now. He gave the occasional grumble of disapproval as America felt him cross his arms stubbornly.

"How bad do you hurt?" America asked, balancing his chin on top of England's head. England seemed to give up on trying to tell America what not to do, seeing as he wasn't going to listen.

"Chest hurts," England murmured. "Diaphragm hurts too. Really, anything that has to do with breathing hurts."

"Do you want pain meds?"

"No, you git!" England said stubbornly. "I'm the United bloody Kingdom! I don't need pain medication!"

"Okay, dude," America laughed, patting one of his arms that were still pinned to his sides by America's hug. "Just asking, that's all."

England huffed again, but remained still. America continued to hold him to make sure that he didn't try to get up before he felt better. Without thinking, America began to hum softly to himself, again not paying attention to what tune he was humming. When he realized what he was doing, he listened to the tune that had been escaping him. It was England's lullaby again. America looked down to make sure that it wasn't upsetting him, but felt his stomach flip. England had fallen asleep.

America smiled down at him. He took one of his arms away from restraining him and tousled his blonde hair. He always acted so strong and so tough, but in reality, England was really just human. He could only handle so much before he crashed. America twirled his fine hair around one of his fingers, amazed by how silky his hair was. The last time he had touched his hair was centuries ago when he had only been a small child. He had forgotten the smooth texture of his hair.

He thought back to when he had been a child and how big England had seemed back then. But now it was much different. England seemed so frail, so tiny. "You're so adorable," America whispered, brushing the back of his neck.

"Oh, am I?"

America jumped, feeling his heart skip a beat. "Wha—?"

England looked up, a smug smile on his face. "Hello," England said, laying his head on America's shoulder. "Anything else you'd like to say?"

America felt blood rush to his face. "Not cool, man!" he said, lightly hitting him on the head, only making England's smile bigger. "You just don't do that, dude!"

A smile parted England's lips as he let out a laugh. A _sincere_ laugh that hadn't been caused by a spell. "Ah, your face was priceless, America!"

He looked down at England, extremely confused. England was… teasing him?

"I'm guessing you're feeling better?" America asked, still amazed that England was giving a sincere smile. He hadn't seen one since before the Revolution.

Nodding, England shifted so he wasn't leaning against America anymore. "Closing my eyes for a while did help." America expected him to get up and move back to his seat, but, once again surprising him, he kept seated on the couch next to him as he grabbed the spell book. He crossed one leg over the other as he opened it to his spot. "I think I'm getting close to figuring out how to break the curse."

"Really?" America tried to sound happy, but he wasn't exactly pleased. He really didn't want the curse to be broken. He liked the way he felt. He didn't mind having feelings for England. Not only didn't he mind it, he actually really liked it. He didn't want to lose these feelings.

"I still need to work on it," England continued, "but I'm close."

America smiled, happy that England was happy. But inside, he felt pain.

England still didn't love him back.

x-x-x-x-x

In reality, England was still kind of hurting. He felt guilty as he thought back to when he had considered making America go through that fit of uncontrollable laughter; how he had thought that a fit of laughter wouldn't be that bad of a thing to go through. But now, after having just experienced it, he was really scared of it. He literally had not been able to stop laughing for a single second. He had thought that he was going to suffocate. His diaphragm had been in so much pain, he had thought he was going to vomit. It had been terrifying, and he had really thought he was going to die. When America had finally gotten on with it and done the counter curse, England had almost passed out from a lack of oxygen. He barely even remembered falling onto America's lap, the first thing he really remembered being America making him lay against him. Stupid America. Then he had just hugged him and started humming to him. It would have annoyed England at any other time, but for some reason, this time it had been rather comforting. He had dozed off until America began messing with his hair. He hadn't really minded it, but it made him more cautious, more alert—he didn't want America to start getting more physical after that. Then he had called him _adorable_. Who calls another grown man adorable! How ludicrous! But part of him had actually liked being called adorable by America. And that had been the part that had responded to him. He didn't know why he had teased him, why he had stayed seated next to him.

He most certainly was not becoming attracted to him.

Setting his focus back to his book, he continued to search for a way to set everything right again. He knew that he was getting close to finding how to break the curse he had put on him. He just needed a little more information, just a few more translations, and he was sure he would have it figured out.

England lost track of how long they sat there. It must have been about half an hour that passed as they sat there in near silence. America had been keeping himself entertained by randomly humming or some other meaningless waste of time. England looked at him from the corner of his eye to try to see what exactly it was he was doing. He was sitting cross legged on the couch next to him, holding his ankles, gently swaying from side to side. His hair was still messy, Nantucket standing even more straight up than normal. He wanted to scold him for not grooming himself properly, but he decided against it—America wouldn't listen anyway. His blue eyes kept flicking from place to place as if his brain couldn't pick one thing to focus on. He blushed slightly as he remembered when those eyes had been looking directly into his, seeming to peer right into him. It hadn't been until that morning that he had realized just how blue his eyes were. Most people's eyes were grey with a hint of blue. Not his. They were unbelievably blue, blue as the clear sky.

Not that he cared of course. He lightly shook his head, trying to get his attention back to his book.

That's when he saw it. He read over it, and then read over it again. A jolt went through him when he realized that this was what he had been looking for, what he had needed! He flipped through the book and found all of the pieces that he had needed to fit together. A smile of success crossed his face—he had done it! He read over it all again, his smile growing larger. This was it!

"I've got—!" he said, but was cut off when he read over another one of the parts. He felt America's eyes on him as he read over that part again. He felt his stomach drop.

"What's up?" America asked, leaning closer to see what was wrong. England continued to stare at the page, trying to figure out if there could be another meaning to it. But nothing came to mind. It meant exactly what it said.

"I figured out how to get rid of the curse," England said slowly, trying to figure out his next words. He saw America tense, but America answered with a fairly happy sounding, "Cool." England read over the passage once more to make sure he had it right. "I figured it out, but…"

"But what?" America asked. He leaned closer, his very blue eyes filled with concern. "What's wrong?"

"It gets rid of the curse," England said. "But it takes all of the memories of the curse away with it too."

America cocked his head at him, a confused look masking his face. "What does that mean?"

England couldn't make eye contact with him, keeping his eyes to the ground. "It means that everything that's happened in the past three days, everything that's happened since the curse too effect. You won't remember anything."

x-x-x-x-x

Gaah! Oh my gosh, I can't wait to write the next chapter! :D Sorry if this chapter is one of my best… I edited at 3 last night… XD If you see anything that you think I should fix, let me know! :)

Please review! Reviews help me update faster, so not only to they make me happy, but they'll make you happy too! :) Just do it! :D


	5. Chapter 5

For all of you who reviewed, I LOVE YOU! :D Thank you so much! I'm so glad that you guys are liking the story! I was worried that, since I'm just coming up with a lot of the story on the spot, it wouldn't be as good. But if you guys like it, I'm happy! :3

Also, sorry about this chapter taking a little longer. This one has been a tough one! Ooh, and we're going to have a guest appearance of another country in this chapter! If you wanna know who it is, you have to read! :P

Anyways, enjoy the next chapter, and please review! :D

x-x-x-x-x

"You won't remember anything."

America felt himself go cold. He stared at England, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. He'd lose his memories? Carrying England to bed, England singing him to sleep, England laughing joyfully for the first time in centuries; he wouldn't remember any of it? The thought made him feel sick.

"Can't you do anything?" America asked, trying to keep desperation out of his voice. He didn't want to forget anything, wanted to cherish these memories.

"It's the only way," England said solemnly, still refusing to make eye contact. "There's no other way to make it work. I can't."

"Can't you just leave the things the way they are?"

England looked up at him, a pained look on his face. "No," he said. "I can't. I have to change things back to the way they were."

"Why?" America asked, no longer caring how pathetic his voice sounded. "Why? What if I like things the way they are?"

"You like things the way they are because of the blasted curse!" England said, exasperated. "Why can't you realize that? That's why you feel like this! It's not real!"

_It's not real_. Those three words were like a punch to the stomach. America just stared at him, not wanting to believe this. It couldn't be fake. It didn't feel fake! He knew what he was feeling, and it couldn't all be a lie!

"England," America pleaded. "England, please. I love you. Don't do this."

"I have no choice," he said, jumping up from the couch. "I have to return things to normal. And I can't have you going around saying that you love me when I don't return those feelings."

Another blow to the stomach, only this time it felt like a knife. "You don't… love me back?"

"Of course not!" England answered harshly, eyes fiery. "I'd never look at you like that! And everything will be better when you stop acting so stupid!"

America jumped up from the couch to look England in the eye. "You think showing actual affection is _stupid_?" he cried.

"Love and affection have never had any purpose," England said, still denying America direct eye contact, "besides causing me grief."

"You didn't seem so grieved when you were raising me."

England finally looked at him, his green eyes radiating with anger. "I _had_ been happy!" England yelled, making America jumped back as he lashed out, hitting him hard in the shoulder. "I had been happy, raising you! You were able to make me happy for the first time in my whole damn, bloody life! And then, then you _left_!"

Shoulder stinging, America stared at him, dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He hadn't been expecting him to bring up such a touchy subject. "England…"

"After everything I did for you!" England continued, cutting off America as he gripped him by the collar. "I raised you, fed you, cared for you, _loved you_! And then you left me! Left me like everyone else in the damn world did!"

"Because you pushed me away," America whimpered, trying to loosen England's grip on his shirt. "I loved you back, more than anything. But then you started trying to control me, stopped me from doing things. You didn't leave me another—"

"Shut up!" England cried, roughly shaking him. America felt his teeth snap together painfully, but didn't say anything. "I was trying to protect you! I didn't want you to make mistakes! You weren't ready for the world! I was trying to help you!"

"I had to leave," America repeated, hating to see England hurt like this. "Believe me, I didn't want to. I loved you. I _still_ love you. But I had to have freedom. If I ever wanted to impress you, I had to…"

"I hate you," England hissed, clenching his shirt tighter, his knuckles going white. "I hate you. I hate you so…" His breath caught in his throat as tears that had been building up in his eyes finally fell from his eyes. "I hate…" he tried again, but he was cut off by a sob that escaped him. "I… hate this," he choked, dropping his head, hiding his face from America as he continued crying.

America looked down at him, a horrible sadness coming over him. The image of when England had last cried like this flashed through his head. England crumpled on the ground, drenched because of the rain pouring down on them; shaking because of the cold as his body was racked with sobs. The last time he had cried like that, it had been his fault then too. America did what he hadn't been able to do last time as he wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. England tried to push him away for a fraction of a second, but then removed his hands from his collar as he threw his arms around America, holding him almost painfully tight. His face buried itself in his shoulder, his body shaking with sobs that took over his whole body.

"I'm sorry," America said, stroking England's hair. "I'm sorry."

Carefully, America lowered himself and England down on the couch, England now refusing the let him go. "It's okay" he muttered, nuzzling the top of his head with his cheek. "It's okay."

"I lied."

America looked down at him, confused by his words. "What?" he asked.

"I lied," England murmured, moving his head from America's shoulder to his chest. "I… I never hated you. I hated the memories, the pain, the loss. I didn't like to think about them. Whenever I saw you, I'd always remember the pain, always try to think of what I could have done differently. I could never remember the happiness." He sniffled as he loosened his grip on America and sat up straight. "I hated the pain. But I never hated you."

For a moment, America just looked down at him, taking everything in. He closed his eyes as he let himself smile. "Then I have a question for you."

x-x-x-x-x

"A question?" England roughly wiped the disgusting tears from his face. How could he have allowed himself to break down like that, especially in front of America? It was completely unacceptable for a man of his caliber.

"You don't hate me," America said slowly, re-opening his amazingly blue eyes. "So, if that's the case, how do you really feel about me?"

England looked at him, trying to figure out what exactly he was getting at. "What," he said, puzzled as how to answer. "How do I feel?" He paused, feeling his face become warmer as America's gaze became stronger. "I don't… get what you're asking."

A mischievous smile crossed America's lips, sending an unexplained chill down England's back. "Let me explain," he said as he took England's chin gently in his hand. England was about to ask what he meant when, feeling his entire body tense, America's lips met his own.

Dear mother of God. America was kissing him. He should be yelling and screaming, punching and kicking, _something_ to make him stop. But England was paralyzed, the warmth of America's touch mesmerizing him. His worst fears had come true, yet he wasn't scared at all. In fact, a feeling he couldn't quite place fell over him instead. A feeling of… was it happiness?

Before England was even close to deciphering all that had just happened, America ended the contact as he drew his face away from his. He still looked happy, but he had a hint of nervousness in his features. "So," he said, his voice making England shiver. "What do you think of me?"

England sat perfectly still for what seemed like an eternity, still trying to figure out what it was exactly that he was feeling. It was something so new, so unfamiliar. He was scared by it, but, at the same time, he had never felt so whole in his entire life.

Not letting himself think, not letting himself reconsider anything that was about to happen, England lunged forward as he crashed his lips back onto America's. He could feel America's shock from this reaction, but felt a jolt shoot through him as he felt his smile against his lips. America's fingers entangled themselves in his hair as England allowed the hero do what he had wanted since he had arrived. He let himself be pushed down on the couch as they continued to kiss, sending all of England's past cares away to deal with later. Much later.

Cautiously, England laid his hands on America's back, lightly holding his shirt. The smell of America overwhelmed him, even more delicious than he remembered now that he was so close. He felt himself being enthralled by the contact, by his scent. Somehow, it took him a few seconds to realize that they had gone past just kissing, their mouths now quite busy with each other. Not that he minded.

However, England immediately noticed when America suddenly started unbuttoning his shirt. That was when his brain started to function again. Just barely stopping himself from screaming, he roughly shoved America off of him.

America gave a little gasp, obviously not expecting such an abrupt response. "Wh-what's wrong?"

England tried to sit up too quickly, resulting in ungracefully falling off the couch with a loud 'thump.' "Bloody hell," he gasped, shoving his messed hair out of his face. He brought his legs up to his chest as he settled his forehead on his knees. It wasn't until now that he took notice of the lack of oxygen in his system, causing blue dots in his vision. His mind was running to and fro, trying to figure out what had just happened.

Not only had he and America just kissed. England had _enjoyed_ it.

"England?" America asked carefully. England could hear him shift and felt his presence in front of him now on the floor. "England, what happened?"

"I don't know," England answered, refusing to look up. "I don't bleeding know." He was so embarrassed, so utterly confused. He knew exactly why America was feeling this way for him, but he had absolutely no reason to be feeling anything like this for him. It was absolutely ludicrous!

England felt America's hand lay on his shoulder, and he venomously swatted his hand away. "Don't," he barked, tilting his head up just enough to look at him. America was sitting on his knees, holding the affronted hand with a look of deep concern on his face. England gave a frustrated sigh as he let his head rest itself back on his knees. He hated to see America hurt like this.

"England," America said softly. His voice was pained, making England feel ill with guilt. Why did he always have to do something wrong?

"I have to go." England said abruptly, jumping up, making him dizzy. "I… I need space."

He felt America's eyes latch on to him. "What?" he asked desperately, grabbing on to England's sleeve. "No, why? You can't just—" They both paused as England felt the collar of his shirt be pulled down by America's attempts, revealing his bare shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his shirt back into place as he wrenched himself away from America.

"I need time to think," England said, re-buttoning his shirt. "I need to figure out everything."

"Please!" America begged, trying to get a hold of him. "I'm sorry! Please, please don't—"

"_Get off_!" England yelled, shoving America away from him. He had a dazed look as he fell backwards, his blue eyes sadder than he had ever seen before. Clenching his fists, he looked away as he heard America hit the ground, a sad whimper escaping him. God, he felt like such a bastard.

"Listen," England said slowly, trying to keep himself from having another breakdown. "I just need room to think right now. I'm going to leave for a day, just to think all of this over. But I'll be back by tomorrow." He looked down at America again to see what his reaction was. He still looked pained, but he looked slightly calmed down. "I _will_ come back," England said. "I promise you."

America continued to look down, his voice murmuring something that was inaudible to England's ears. "What?" he asked.

With strong blue eyes, America looked up at him. "You never keep promises," he said, his eyes boring into England. "When I was little, you always told me you'd come back. You said you would come back soon, but you would keep me waiting for _years_. So how am I supposed to believe that I won't have to wait a few more years to see you again?"

England stared at him for what seemed like forever as his words sunk in. _You never keep promises_. He bit his lip as he tried to think of how to reassure him, but thoughts were already so messed up, making anything in his head hard to decipher. Not able to think of anything else to do, he got down on his knees as he brushed America's tangled hair out of his face. "I promise you," he said, gracing America's forehead with a kiss, "I'll come back. The only reason for me not returning will be if I die."

America gave a choked little cry. "D-don't say that, freakin' idiot!" he said, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Don't jinx yourself like that! Now I'm going to be freaked out! What if you get hit by a car? What if you fall and break your neck? God, what if you get kidnapped and raped or—"

England slapped his hand over his mouth, making him shut up. "God, Americans," he complained, rolling his eyes. He stood back up and held out a hand to help America up as well. "I will come back," England said once again. "Do you trust me?"

He looked at the hand for a second as if questioning its intentions. Then he let a smile cross his face. "Yeah," he said as he took England's hand. "I do."

x-x-x-x-x

America was lying on the couch, staring up at the blank ceiling. England had changed, packed some of his stuff, and then left. He had left about ten minutes earlier, leaving America alone in his house to try and live without his presence. Seeing as he had spent the last three days with him, he wasn't really sure if this was possible. His missed being able to sit with England, listen to him breathe, listen to him talk silently to himself as he studied. All of the little quirks he had only made America love him even more. And thinking about how he loved all of those little quirks made him miss him even more.

_It's just for a day_, America thought to himself, trying to chase his fears away. _He promised he's come back._ He tried to slow down his breathing like England did when he was upset, but the lack of air only made him more anxious. He jumped up and grabbed a hamburger, but the processed meat didn't seem to make him feel any better this time. He couldn't keep him mind focused on anything either. He'd think of hamburgers, then think of how much England hated them. He'd think about some of his television shows, then think of some the insults that England had shot at them. He'd think of peanut butter, and think of how England hated the texture. Everything would come back to England.

_One day_, America thought desperately. _One whole damn day_.

x-x-x-x-x

He couldn't believe that he was doing this.

England stood in front of the door, trying to figure out just how he had thought this was a good idea. He knew that he would probably be able to get some insight, but he wasn't sure if it was going to be any that he actually wanted. With a deep calming breath, he knocked on the door. God, what was he getting himself in to?

The door knob jostled, and the door opened, sending the odor of red roses in the air like a slap in the face. England had to keep a growl in his throat contained as a man stood in the door frame, his blonde locks swaying in a breeze, whose origins England was confused about. A huge smirk crossed France's face as he looked down at England. "Ah, Angleterre!" he said jovially, slipping his arm around England's shoulder. "What a pleasant surprise! Please, come in, come in, _mon ami_!"

"I am _not_ your friend," England growled, trying to shake off France's arm. But France had a firm grip, only holding tighter at England's attempts to get him off.

"You are not, hm?" France asked, sending his hair cascading into England's face. "If I am not, then why are you here?"

England swatted his hair out of his face with an irritated huff. "I'm here because…" He paused, his mouth tasting sour with the words he was about to speak. "I need… your advice."

"Hmm," France purred in his ear as he dragged him through the door, closing it behind him with his foot. "And just what to you need my advice for?"

A blush came to England's face, causing France to give one of his annoying Frenchie laughs. "I, er… It's about…"

"Is it about America?" France asked, giving another, "Hon hon hon."

England's jaw dropped, blood rushing to his face. "Ah, w-well…" He scratched his head, staring at the floor. "Well. Yes."

France let out a huge laugh, throwing his other arm around England as he squeezed him while swinging him from side to side. "Ah, _mon ami_, it is about time! I cannot believe that you have finally come to terms!"

England gave him a bewildered look as he tried to shove France off of him. "What the hell are you talking about?" England asked, getting more and more irritated by France's behavior.

"Ah, you silly idiot," France said, nuzzling his stubble against his forehead. "I've seen it for _years_!"

"Seen what?" England yelled, finally succeeding in pushing France off of him. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"_L'amour_, of course," France crooned, holding his chest as if the very word made his heart throb. "Oh, _l'amour_!"

England grabbed France by a lock of his hair, causing a little yelp of pain to escape him. "Tell me just what you're talking about, or else I'll chop off all your hair."

"Ah, okay, bastard," France said, tears in his eyes. "You don't have to be so cruel!"

With a smirk, England released his hair. France immediately pulled out a handkerchief and began to dramatically wipe away his tears. "Oh, the brutality you use," he cried, letting his golden hair sway back and forth. "No wonder you have so few friends!"

"Shut up and just talk," England said mercilessly. "How long did you say you've… seen something between us?"

France put his handkerchief back in its place as he set his hair back in place. "How long, you ask?" he said. "Oh, for several years now! It was so obvious, and so adorable!"

England blushed, straightening out his clothes. "H-how was it obvious?" he asked. He wouldn't be surprised if France was just lying or exaggerating. France always did that to him to piss him off.

"Oh, you two can always be seen with one another!" France said happily. "You're always together having lover's quarrels! You can just sense the sexual tension in the air!"

"S-sexual tension?" England blundered, his face growing ever hotter. "Lover's quarrels?" He had the extreme urge to punch France in the face, but was too embarrassed to do anything other than just stand there like an idiot.

"Oh, Angleterre!" France said, patting him on the back. "It is nothing to be embarrassed about! You two are meant for each other!"

England stared at him, getting more and more shocked by his words. "Meant for…?"

"So," France said, once again wrapping his arm playfully around his shoulder. "Just what kind of advice are you here for? How to woo your American, or maybe how to _arouse _him, hmm?"

This time, England was able to plant a fist in France's face. "Gah, you stupid pervert!" England growled, watching as France pulled back out his handkerchief. "I just wanted your opinion on… something else."

"Oh, _something else_?" France said with a wink. "Maybe some _positions_, hmm?"

"No, God dammit!" England yelled, going to hit him in the face again, but missed as France suddenly learned how to dodge. "Just listen, stupid frog!"

Once France had finished being an idiotic pervert, they sat down as England explained what had happened: The spell gone wrong, America falling for him, and all of England's confused thoughts. By the time England had finished his story, he was having another fit because of all of the memories and because of France's commentary.

"So, you don't know whether you really love him or not, _non_?" France surmised, leaning back on the couch, sitting next to England.

"More or less," England answered, holding his head as he felt a head ache coming on. He really wished that France would learn how to keep his mouth shut when someone was trying to explain something to him. "I really don't know what I'm feeling right now besides confusion."

"Ah, Angleterre, what has you so confused?" France asked, holding his hand out in a questioning way. "Surely you return feelings for him?"

"Well, I…" England paused, trying to sort out through his thoughts again even though he knew he wasn't going to have much success. "I just don't understand why I would have feelings for him. I know he feels like this for me because of the spell, but… why should I feel anything for him?"

"Because of _l'amour_!" France said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

"But why would I feel something like this?" England asked desperately. "I've never felt anything like this, and I feel like it's tearing me apart!"

France looked at him with a sad look that made England feel sick—he didn't need pity, especially from France. "Well, it hurts because you are denying it."

"Why wouldn't I be denying it!" England cried, stubbornly crossing his arms. "He used to be my brother! I can't just suddenly go and admit that I love him."

"_Admit_?" France said, smiling smugly at the word.

England flushed, suddenly realizing his choice in words. "N-no, I didn't mean that! I mean—!" France let out another laugh, making England punch him harshly in the arm.

"Ah, sweet _l'amour_," he said as he rubbed his arm painfully. "But what has you bothered so? All you have to do is tell him your true feelings!"

"It's not that easy," England groaned, rubbing his temples. "I have to take off the spell! When I do, he won't remember anything. It will be as if nothing happened."

He felt France looking at him carefully, examining him. "Again, I must ask," he said curiously, "why does this bother you so? You could just make this all go away, and he would be none the wiser."

"That's not that easy either," England said quietly, keeping his eyes to the floor. "I really don't know what I want anymore. Part of me wants to make America forget everything so we can go back to normal where nothing was complicated. But the other part…" He went silent as he, for the first time, really thought about what that part of him wanted. "The other part wants him all to myself, wants to have him forever as just mine." As the words passed his lips, England blushed furiously as he realized what he had just said. "N-no, what am I saying!" he said, clutching his head. "No, that couldn't be what I want! No, of course not…"

"You're deeper in _l'amour_ than I thought," France sighed, a smile on his face. England shot a glare at him because of the comment, but also because of the truth it held. Truth that he really didn't want to deal with. "You should just tell him how you feel," France said. "If you don't lift the spell, he'll know that you love—" England shot him a poisonous glare that made him pause as he decided to rephrase his advice. "Sorry, he'll know that you _like_ him. Better? And then if you do lift the curse, he won't remember. Either way, you're probably a winner."

"Probably?" England asked ruefully. "Why probably?"

France sighed a laugh. "_L'amour_ is a beautiful thing, Angleterre," he said smoothly, "but it can also be a cruel thing. It's unpredictable. It could make you the happiest man on earth, or it could make you kill yourself. You never really know with _l'amour_."

England huffed. "Yeah, that's why I don't want to deal with it, wanker."

"Ah, Angleterre," France cooed as he once again slid his arm around his shoulders. "You have to take chances! _L'amour_ would be dull if there weren't any risks."

"Well, what if the one risk I take breaks all that has happened?" England asked, too tired to try to shake off his arm this time. "What if I mess everything up?"

France smiled as he ruffled England's blonde hair. "Then you try again until you get it right."

England stared at France as if this was the stupidest suggestion he had ever heard in his life. But then memories of the Revolution flashed through his head; the pain, the hatred, the bitterness, the feeling of utter betrayal. It had taken a long time, but he and America had become friends, even after all that happened. _Try again until you get it right_. England closed his eyes as he let himself smile.

"Then I guess I just have to try," he said.

x-x-x-x-x

Whoa, France actually giving good advice? Say whaaat? :O

I hope you liked this chapter! Again, sorry it took a little bit longer—writer's block hit me for a while! D:

So, please review! I'll love you if you do! :D


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you so much for the reviews! I really appreciate them! :) I was a little worried about last chapter, but I'm glad that you guys were happy with it. :D

So, I hope you guys enjoy the next chapter! Please review! :)

x-x-x-x-x

America was woken by the sound of his door bell being hit several times. He buried his face farther in his pillows, trying to drown out the world. He felt sick. So incredibly sick. So sick he thought he was going to die. He tried to think back to last night, but the huge majority of it was a blur. None of his scrambled memories made much sense. Then he remembered how upset and lonely he had been, and how he had thought that, if he drank a few beers, he'd suddenly feel better. But everything after about the fourth can of beer was a blank. The doorbell continued to ring, and America pushed himself up so he could see who desperately needed him at such a time of day. He looked at his clock, expecting it to be seven in the morning. However, it was actually two in the afternoon. Giving a groan, he continued to walk out of his room, cursing himself for getting so wasted.

Walking through his living room, he saw the pile of empty beer cans and cringed—there were at least twelve of them. No wonder he felt so crappy. Seeing as he was a country, he could drink more alcohol than normal people and get away with it. But drinking two six-packs really wasn't healthy for anyone, country or not.

The doorbell was really starting to give America a horrible head ache. Actually, just being _conscious _was giving him a really bad head ache. The light hurt, sounds hurt, walking hurt, thinking hurt. He just wanted to go back to bed and suffer in loneliness. But no, someone just _had_ to talk to him right now.

He tried to open the door, but then realized he hadn't unlocked it yet. Irritated, he unlocked it and roughly opened it. "What?" he growled, not really in the mood for company. However, he jumped when he realized that it was no other that England standing at his door step. He looked taken aback at America's attitude, making America feel like a complete ass. Wow, he had been missing him the whole time he'd been gone, and soon as he came back, he bit his head off. Way to be a freakin' douchebag.

"Ah, E-England!" he stammered. He went to smile only to realize that hurt too. And his stomach really hurt too, but he figured he could just ignore it for right now. "You're back."

England looked at him curiously, then smiled. America felt warm being able to see that smile after centuries of it being absent "Well, of course. I said I'd come back, didn't I?"

A huge smile crossed America's face as he went to hug him. But suddenly, America's stomach felt really weird. Before he could even think to run back into the house, America threw up—all over England and himself.

Oh God, he was such an idiot.

x-x-x-x-x

England just stood there for a second, not exactly sure what to do. He was slightly irritated seeing as he had had to wait such a long time for America to just answer the door. Then when he had, America had answered it quite rudely, making England afraid that he was angry at him for being gone. Then, once he had thought that everything was perfectly okay, _this_ had happened. America was bent over, now dry heaving after having thrown up on the both of them. England really didn't know how to react. His first reaction was to just start throwing up too because of how ill he felt now, but that would only make matters worse. His second reaction would have been to beat the living crap out of America for vomiting on him, but hurting a sick person was not the gentlemanly thing to do. So, not knowing what really else to do, he just stood there, waiting for America to stop dry heaving so he could maybe do something to help.

After a few seconds, America was finally able to stand up a little straighter, a horrible look on his pale face. "Oh, God, England, I'm so, so, so sorry," he moaned, his voice ragged. "Oh, crap, I'm so…"

England quickly shushed him, pulling America's arm over his shoulder. "Get back in the house," he murmured, feeling America's sick soak farther into his clothes. America attempted to walk with him, but mostly he just let his feet drag. England was confused as to why he was so sick until he had pulled America into the living room. A rather large pile of empty beer cans were lying on the floor. As he thought about it, America did smell bad—and not just because of the vomit.

"Idiot," he muttered, continuing to drag him until they arrived in America's room. "Can you stand?" England asked, still supporting America's weight. Weakly, he looked up, his face a bit dazed. He gave a brief nod as he straightened up. England made sure that he was standing straight and not threatening to tip over, then began searching through America's room. "Where do you keep clothes?"

America looked up, his face pale. "I c'n get clothes," he drawled, trying to move from where he was standing. As soon as he moved, he immediately began to tip. England rushed over and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him upright again. America's eyes were looked muddled, his face only paler. England huffed—and America said that _he_ didn't hold alcohol well, stupid git.

"Just tell me where your clothes are," England said, now having to hold him upright to keep him from falling over. "The sooner you get washed up, the sooner I can get clean too."

America looked at him—or at least looked in his general direction—as it looked like he was thinking it over. It looked like his obvious hang over was making this task very difficult. "Juss pull sum stuff outta d'closet," America slurred, weakly pointing to wear he was referring too. "Dun't matter, I guess."

Carefully, England let America lean against the wall, hoping that it would be enough support to keep him from falling and hitting his head against something. He then quickly went to the closet and rummaged through it until he found a shirt, some pants and—to his extreme discomfort—underwear. Once all of the items of clothing were found, England turned around to see that America had slid down the wall and was now on the floor asleep. With a sigh, England knew he had to wake him up—even though he was kind of cute when he was sleeping.

"America," he said, lightly shaking him. "America, come now, you need to wash up."

America's eyes fluttered open, giving England a sad look. He then closed them again and murmured something. "What?" England asked, lightly shaking him to make sure he was still awake.

"Carry me?" America pleaded, opening his eyes just enough so England could see his blue irises. England felt himself blush. He couldn't carry him! America was rather heavy, and at the moment he was covered in his own sick. But America's eyes were doing something to him that he really couldn't explain. So, even knowing he was going to have a difficult time with it, he slid one arm around his back, the other beneath his legs.

"I might drop you," England warned as he began to slowly lift America. "And if I do, please know it's not on purpose." England held in his breath as he stood up straight with America in his arms. It was awkward holding someone who was taller than him, and even though America didn't look overweight, he definitely wasn't light. America seemed bewildered by England actually complying, but gave a weak smile as he wrapped his arms around England's neck. England stiffened, not sure if he liked the contact, but decided to not say anything. For some reason, he just couldn't say no to America anymore

By the time England had gotten America to his bathroom, England couldn't feel anything in his arms besides pain. He tried to set him down gently, but his arms gave out, making America spill out on the floor. He expected for America to burst with complaints, but he just gave a little "oof" as he just laid still. "Sorry," England said, stretching out his arms. He looked down at him, and was concerned with how little he was moving. "America," England said, "please don't tell me I'll have to bathe you too."

At this, America gave a tiny laugh. "Ha, nah," he said weakly. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his hair falling down over his face. "I can manage that I think."

"You think?" England repeated, a small smirk on his face. "Wow, I'm glad you finally figured out how to think."

"Don't judge me, Mr. I-Cook-Like-Crap."

England slit his eyes, not enjoying yet another insult directed at his cooking. "Take a shower, idiot," he said, tossing his clothes at him. "I want to get cleaned up too, I'll have you know."

America shoved his messy hair out of his sweaty face. "Well, you'd better get out then," he said. A smirk slowly came to his face. "Unless, of course, you want a strip tease."

A blush came to his face as England glared down at him, a forced smile on his face. "Wow, a man covered in his own vomit—how appealing."

"You know it sounds sexy," America said, giving a little wink. England just shook his head at him as he turned and left the room. America could be so utterly ridiculous at times.

Not wanting to sit down on anything seeing as he was still covered with America's vomit, England decided to take off some of his layers, hoping that it would at least help lessen the smell. Besides, they were two men, right? It wasn't like he'd be exposing himself in front of a woman. It was just America, that was all. Telling himself not to worry, he took off his suit jacket and shirt, leaving his body waist up bare. He had tried to convince himself that this wouldn't be a big deal, but the thought of America seeing him like this made him nervous. What if it gave America the wrong idea? What if he took it as a sign that England wanted him? What if he tried something? What if England _let him_ try something?

Too anxious to sit down, England decided to pick out some clothes for after his shower. But, to his horror, none of his clothes were clean. He couldn't wash them when America or he was in the shower because it would take up all of the hot water. He didn't have time either, and a gentleman of his caliber certainly did not re-wear clothes that had not been washed. He gave a groan—he was going to have to borrow clothes from America. Such a disgrace.

With a cloud of shame shrouding around him, England went back to America's closet to try to locate clothes that he would be somewhat comfortable with wearing until his own clothes were washed. But, not to England's surprise, most of America's clothes were cheap T-shirts with immature quotes or images emblazoned on them. After a few minutes of desperately searching, he decided to just go with a plain black T-shirt—black suited him at least. He tried to find a decent pair of pants, but once again, he had a struggle finding something that would at all suit him. Finally, he settled for a pair of red plaid pajama pants—at least these didn't have holes in them.

Having his outfit of shame picked out, England turned around to exit the room—only to find America standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously, a small smirk on his face. England nearly screamed, pulling the clothes up to hide his skin away from America. How long had he been standing there just watching him?

"I'm out of the shower," he said simply, the smile still on his face.

"Well, aren't you bloody observant?" England snapped back, feeling his face flush as he felt America's eyes drink him in. The way his gaze pierced him was very unsettling, making him feel like every inch of him was now being scrutinized.

"Those are probably going to be big on you," America said, gesturing to the clothes in England's arms. "I'm way taller than you."

"Well, I don't have that much of a choice," England muttered, picking up his dirty clothes, unable to break eye contact with America. Having his things gathered, England Not liking how America's eyes felt on him, he quickly tried to rush past him. But America didn't let him go that easily. Before he was even two feet away from him, England felt America's hand grip his shoulder as he pulled him back.

"Dude, chill," America said, a little laugh escaping him as England felt his body run into America's. "What, you weren't expecting me to get out so soon?"

"N-no," England said, heart pumping as he felt his bare skin against America's clothing. He was still warm from his shower, the skin of the hand on his shoulder still just slightly damp. He was quickly regretting having decided to remove his shirt. He hadn't been expecting for America to be touching, the little contact being made feeling like electrical currents running through him.

A sudden shiver went through England's body as he felt America's finger trail down his neck right over his spine. He barely touched him, his finger just barely grazing his skin, but the feel of his touch seemed to make England's nerves short circuit. Then, making England give a small gasp, his finger continued down his spine to his mid-back, his lips grazing the back of England's neck. "I missed you," America said, his breath against his skin making hundreds of tingles rush through England.

England tried to keep his thoughts straight—he couldn't let America get his way with him, even though it was tempting. "I missed you too, git," England replied, sensing his whole body tense. "Can I please take a shower in peace?"

He felt America linger at his neck for a moment, but he finally retreated. "Okay, I guess," he pouted. "You smell bad anyways."

England swung around to face him at this. "Well, that certainly isn't _my_ fault!" he snapped.

America laughed, tousling England's blonde hair. "Sorry," he said, laughing. "Well, you know how well I control myself."

England closed his eyes in a laugh. "Yes, I do know that," he answered.

x-x-x-x-x

This was outrageous.

England looked at himself, not liking how this looked at all. The pants he wore were far too large for him, completely hiding his feet from view. The black shirt was baggy and long, making him look completely unrefined and even trashy. But, once again, he didn't have much other choice. Even with his hair wet, he tried to flatten the rebellious strands. But he quickly gave in—his hair never listened to his orders.

Deciding that he wasn't going to get much better, he stepped out of the bathroom with a sigh, preparing himself for America's snide comments about his appearance. He was just hoping that maybe he would decide to keep his mouth shut. But he knew America too well to ever hope for such a thing.

"Ha ha, England, you look like a little kid!" America said, doubled over in laughter. Yet again, he was irritated by how America was able to recover so quickly. Not an hour ago, he had been so extremely hung over. But now he was completely sober and back to his annoying self. He wondered just how he could do that, but just figured that sickness just got tired of him after a while, just like everything else did.

"Shut up, git," England mumbled, lightly hitting him on the back of the head with his fist. "I wouldn't look so ridiculous if you hadn't thrown up, so this is your fault."

America stood back up, his face slightly red from his laughter. "Sorry, man," he said, a smile still on his face. "It's just usually when I see you, you're all dignified n' stuff! I haven't seen you dressed down like that since I was really little!"

England shrugged off his comments as he roughly sat down on the couch, crossing his arms. "It's not like I had any choice," he grumbled again, picking up his book. He flicked it open back to where he had been reading.

He felt the couch sag next to him, but he didn't look up. "What're you looking at now?" America asked, scooting closer so that their shoulders were touching. England didn't mind the contact though—which he found humorous, seeing as just the other day, his just sitting on the same couch made him uncomfortable.

"I'm trying to see if I can take the curse off without having to take away your memory," England replied, his eyes skimming the page. He had decided that he would at least try to find a different way to take off the curse. He did like having someone care for him, and he was still figuring out all that he felt for him in return. He didn't want to get rid of all they had built up and end up back where they were, two hundred years of disdain between them.

England heard America give a quiet, "Mm-hm," as he sat still, their shoulders still touching. Even without looking, England could tell that he wanted more contact. He gave a half smile as he lifted his arm and draped it around America's shoulders, pulling him closer. He felt America tense under his touch, but he quickly relaxed. America scooted even closer to him, making England jump slightly when his light brown hair tickled against his neck. He gave a contented sigh, bringing his legs up as he somehow snuggled in even closer, his arms winding around England's waist. England felt himself blush, but didn't say anything. Now with them so close, England could feel America dozing off. He guessed that, even though he was feeling much better than before, he was still tired out from drinking so much.

"England," America said quietly, his voice fading off, "I love you."

The three simple words made England feel all kinds of different things—warm, confused, happy, perplexed. How was he supposed to respond? _Was_ he supposed to respond? England suddenly realized that he had been holding his breath, and gave a sigh as he released it. America looked up at him, and England realized that he probably thought that he had sighed in annoyance. He gave a short laugh as he laid his hand on America's head. "I love you too."

It took a second for England to actually think about what he had just said. For a fraction of a second, he thought of taking it back. But, as he thought about it, he realized that no truer words had been said—he really did love this fool. This wonderful, kind, loving, beautiful fool. America stared at him in disbelief, also shocked by his words. Then a warm smile spread across his face as he laid himself back against England, holding him even closer than before.

"I love you," America said, nuzzling his head into England's neck.

"I love you too."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I love you."

England looked down at the silly American as he stroked his hair. "America, my love, no matter how many times you say it, you'll just get the same answer."

He felt America give a little laugh. "I know," he murmured, once again heading towards sleep. "I just love your answer."

A smile spread across England's face as he continued to run his fingers through America's hair. "You silly fool," he muttered, setting his attention back to his book. "My silly little fool."

x-x-x-x-x

America felt himself fading off, the warmth of England calming him and all of his worries. Any fears he had had, any worries at all, they were gone.

He loved England. And England loved him back. Finally, his world was at peace.

x-x-x-x-x

Something was wrong.

Why was his bed shaking? Why did his bed smell of tea leaves? Why was his bed crying? America opened his eyes, panic taking him over. What was going on? What had happened? He pushed himself up, making his bed—England—jump. America meant to ask what had happened until his words were caught in his throat by the sight of tears trailing down England's face

"E-England?" America asked, his voice sounding strained from the sudden shock he was experiencing. "England, what happened? What's wrong?"

For a moment, England just stared at him as if trying to think of what to say. Abruptly, he turned his head away from him, another choked sob making his whole body shake. America was frozen—what the hell had happened?

"What's wrong?" America asked desperately, placing his hand on England's shoulder. "Talk to me! What happened?"

"I…I…" England choked, refusing to turn around. "I c-can't… There's no… th-the spell…"

America felt his stomach drop. "What about the spell?" he asked, trying to pull England to face him. "What's going on? _Talk to me, dammit!"_

England slowly, very slowly, turned around to face him. His eyes were red from tears, his face flushed. America was about to again ask what was going on when England shoved his lips against his, making America's breath catch in his throat. Any other time, America would be happy about this and return the kiss; but this was a desperate kiss, a sad kiss. This just proved to him even more that something was horrifyingly wrong.

As abruptly as he had started it, England ended the kiss, staring America directly in the eyes. "I… There's nothing I can do." He paused as his hand traced down the side of America's face. "There's no other way. Your memories will be erased."

America's whole body stiffened. His and England's kiss, England being with him, England saying that he _loved him_. He couldn't forget that. There was no way that he could let himself forget that!

"_No_," America said with every ounce of force he could muster into the single word. "No, I won't let you. You can't just—! No! _No_!"

England's face contorted further as he seemed to sinker farther into despair. "I don't want this either," he choked. "I don't want this at all. I finally have someone who cares about me, someone who shows affection because they want to, not because they'll get something in return. Someone who loves me for me. I finally have someone who treats me like I actually matter, and I have to make them stop loving me."

"I couldn't stop loving you!" America said desperately, taking him by the shoulders. "There's nothing that could stop that!"

At those words, England seemed to break. "How could you ever love me?" he cried, making America stomach twist with pain. "How could you love me without the help of a spell? I'm rude, I'm withdrawn, I push everyone away! There is _nothing_ to love about me!" England silenced, gasping for air between his words and tears. America stared at him, his whole being consumed with sadness. He couldn't make things better this time. He couldn't do anything, and he hated it. "America," England said, gazing into his eyes. "If you choose to ever love me, I want it to be because you actually care for me. Not because of a spell gone wrong."

America felt something in him break. He didn't want this. He wanted England; wanted to stay with him for the rest of his life; to stay with him forever. But England was right. It wouldn't work if he was under a spell. All it would be was a forced love—a fake love.

So, with his throat closed off and tears building up in his eyes, America gave a short nod. "Do what you have to do."

England sat still for what felt like an eternity, but he finally gave a quick nod in return. "Just sit back," England said, his voice strained and quiet. "It… it won't take long."

America kept his eyes latched on England the whole time as he prepared the spell. He didn't care that he wouldn't remember any of this. He wanted to see him, to watch him, to love him for whatever time he had left. England held his spell book, the paper with the casting circle in front of him. He took a shaky breath as he looked up at America, his green eyes full with tears. "I love you," he whispered, his hands shaking. America tried to keep himself contained, not wanting to make England feel even worse. However, he felt one tear escape his eye as he looked at the man in a way he would soon never remember.

"I love you more."

England's face tensed, but a small smile broke through his façade. Then he looked back down at his spell book, his face set. He started chanting. America tried to catch the words but England was talking too quietly. All he heard was mumbling, making him remember how much he loved England's voice when he was speaking softly. Suddenly, all of his thoughts stopped as he felt as if someone was tugging out his brains. He closed his eyes, trying not to make any noise, not wanting to disrupt England. Then, once he was about to yell out in pain—

Black.

Everything was black.

x-x-x-x-x

England felt nothing. He gently dropped America in his bed, looking at his unconscious figure. Before he had passed out, England had looked up to see his face in pain. He was scared that his spell had gone wrong when America had suddenly gone limp in the couch. That was when he knew that the spell had worked. It had worked. He wouldn't remember anything about the past few days. He felt himself become sick as he thought about it, so he once again turned off his thoughts. He'd rather feel nothing that this pain sent directly from hell. He'd rather be dead. It wasn't like anyone would care now if he died.

He let his hand graze America's forehead, brushing his hair out of his face. Sickness came over him again—would he ever be able to do this again? Not likely. What was there to love about him? Surely America would never let him do this when he was back to his normal self. Taking off America's glasses, England sank into sadness he had never experienced before. No, America could never love him.

"My love," England whispered, knowing that America couldn't hear him. "My precious love. I hope, one day, you will come back to me." As the words left him, he knew that they would never come true. Out of all the people in the world, why would America ever choose to love him? It was a hopeless wish.

"I love you," he said, feeling more tears trying to escape him. Not wanting to stay any longer, he turned to leave the room, to leave the house, to leave this country. He could go back to his home now, back to being hated, back to being utterly alone. That was all he was going to get in his isolated life now, so he might as well get used to it. He stopped at the door and peered back at his precious American, his only love that he could never get back.

"Goodbye."

x-x-x-x-x

GAAAH! Ugh, so… much…sadness! Honestly, what is it with me and torturing people! XD But guess what guys! We're getting close to the end! I'm not sure how many chapters are left—at least two—but we're getting to the end! I so can't wait to write it, yet I want it to last and last! But thank you so much for your support—you really don't know how much it means to me! :) I've never met any of you before, but I have loved getting to know you and getting your feedback! Thank you so much—I really couldn't do it without you! :D

Now, out of the kindness of your soul, please review! :D


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you so much everyone for your comments! I really appreciate them! And—don't take this wrong—but I was glad that all of you were depressed… that just means that I did a good job! :D I'm going to do my best to make the story happy again! Don't worry! I AM planning on a happy ending! All good things come when you wait! :)

Also, sorry such a long wait. This past week had been freaking insanity! I've been sick with stomach issues (I won't go into detail, seeing as I'm merciful like that) and next week… next week is Finals week… I need a hug… XD So I've been working and studying like crazy to try and catch up on stuff I've missed, and then I just kept on getting story ideas for other USUK stories, and… Ugh, my brain has just not wanted to focus! In all reality, I should be studying right now, but… -dies a little inside-

Anyways, I'll shut up now. XD Please review. :D

x-x-x-x-x

Bright light could be seen through his closed eyelids as America began to wake up. He let his eyes open slightly to glance at his digital clock, trying to see if it was a decent time to wake up yet. With his glasses off, he was just barely able to read the time as ten in the morning. Stretching and giving a long yawn, he decided that he might as well get up. He was really hungry for some hamburgers!

Clumsily searching for his glasses, he sat up as he prepared himself to face yet another day. But he could really make it through anything, seeing as he was a completely awesome hero! Even being bored home alone was not a challenge for him! He would just find something to do until he wasn't bored. Besides, even he admitted that he had a pretty sad excuse of an attention span, so it wasn't like he'd get too focused on anything. He was America! Americans never, ever, _ever_ got bored!

Not bothering to clean himself up—he was home alone after all—America wandered to his kitchen in search of his delicious hamburgers. To his confusion, he found them stored in a cupboard. Since when did he actually store food in the cupboards? Weird. Shrugging, he unwrapped one and was about to eat it—until he actually looked at it. He had just bought these yesterday, hadn't he? They should have still been relatively fresh. But the hamburger looked stale. Feeling depressed about the expired burger, he tossed in the trash. He tried looking for a fresh burger in the pile that remained, but was distressed as he came to realize that all of them were stale. He was seriously on the verge of crying as he dumped his hamburgers, feeling like he was committing a crime against humanity—wasting burgers! He felt like he was committing genocide here, killing a whole family of good burgers!

Feeling as if he should be killed for his crimes, America grabbed a half empty gallon sized tub of cookie dough ice cream and a spoon. He really needed some comfort food after that absolute tragedy! All of those hamburgers gone to waste—he just cringed thinking about it. He set the ice cream down long enough to go and grab his computer so he could start watching something on his computer. The only thing that would be able to cheer him up now was some random videos on Youtube. Opening his lap top, he was about to open a web page when he quickly glanced at the date. And then continued to stare at it.

How the freaking crap had he missed five days?

America desperately tried to think back, trying to figure out why he had no memory of the past few days. He remembered Tony leaving, remembered being bummed that he wouldn't have anyone to watch scary movies with, remembered watching some TV, and then… then he had woken up in his bed this morning.

Really beginning to panic, America forced himself to take a few deep breaths. Okay. What could have happened? What were the possibilities? Alright. He had been in a coma… a hamburger induced coma… a coma where he had magically not needed any assistance whatsoever. Alright, that was not an option. What else? He had figured out something that he wasn't supposed to know, so the CIA came and wiped out his memories… Only he was the freaking United States of America, and was supposed to know everything. Huh, alright, another option out. Oh, maybe he was just dreaming and his brain was just deciding to freak him out! He pinched himself, and threw that option out the window too.

Had the freaking apocalypse happened? Was he the only man on Earth left alive? Was everyone else a zombie? Holy Zombie Apocalypse, Batman! Scared that this was the case, America quickly turned on the news. He gave a huge sigh of relief as he saw that nothing else besides crushing debt and lying politicians were happening. Alright, so that was normal, nothing to worry about. It still didn't explain why he didn't remember anything though.

Now relieved that he wasn't the only living human being on the planet, nothing seemed too bad to America. He sat back as he let himself calm down. He'd figure out what had happened sooner or later. He'd probably call someone later on and see what they thought about it.

Surely at least England would know what was going on. He always knew everything.

x-x-x-x-x

All England was aware of was that he was still alive. He was still lying in his bed, still dressed in clothes he had changed into before he had left America's house, still utterly and painfully alone. He had no idea how long he had laid there, how long he planned to stay there. By now, all of his emotions had gone numb, his brain turning off everything that hurt. He was sure that he was going to have to eat soon, but he had no desire to. All he really wanted to do was stay where he was and slowly fade out of existence.

The phone rang, forcing him to realize that, even though he was suffering like he never had before, the world was still moving. He supposed that he should answer and see what the world needed of him now. Luckily, the cordless phone was within arm's reach. Without looking at the caller ID, England answered it. "Hello?" he said drearily.

"Ah, _mon ami_!" a most despicable voice said on the other end of the line, it's tone far too happy to be legal. "How are you doing? How is your little American doing?"

Hitting the end button, England tossed the phone across the room, a look of pure rage on his face. Damn France! Why the hell did he have to call at all of the worst times? The phone began to ring again, but England decided to ignore it. He felt like utter rubbish already, so he had no reason to speak with him. However, after it had been ringing for a whole minute, England was on the verge of yelling bloody murder. Growling, he stood up and stomped across the room, violently hitting the talk button. "What the bloody hell do you want?" he hissed into the receiver, not caring how ruthless he sounded.

A hurt sounding France spoke. "You took his memory, didn't you?"

England stared off at nothing in particular, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "And why do you care?" England asked, his hand holding the phone hard enough to make his knuckles go white. He didn't want to talk about this. He didn't want to talk about anything.

"Even though we may not get along all the time," France said, his voice for once sounding somewhat serious, "we are still friends. I do care about your wellbeing."

His hand loosened on the phone, letting a frustrated sigh out. He really had to be feeling terrible to feel guilty about being rude to France. "Sorry," he said, shoving his hair out of his face. "I'm just… I'm really tempted to just kill myself right now to be honest."

A pause held them for a second, feeling like a literal chill between them. "Angleterre," France said, his voice cautious. "Again, I know we don't get along, but do you want me to come over so you could talk?"

"No," England responded without a second thought. "No, I don't want to talk about it. It will just make me feel worse."

France once again paused, England actually surprised by his silence—since when did France learn how to shut up? "Well, Angleterre," he said, his voice now having an edge of mischief. "What would you say if I were outside your door right now with some drinks? Would you talk to me then?"

England paused as he took the phone from his ear and stared at it. _What_? Quickly, he ran to his window that had a view of his front door. An evil glare on his face, he put the phone back to his ear. "Why the bloody hell are you at my house, damn bloody frog!" He could hear France give obnoxious laughter as England continued to let out a huge string of profanities.

"May I come in?" France asked, England now able to see that disgustingly smug smirk on his face. England was going to tell him to go to hell when France added, "You know a true British gentleman would let me in, seeing as I've come such a long way."

He clenched his teeth together as he growled. Damn prick. "Just wait a bloody minute."

Within five minutes, France was sitting comfortably on England's couch, sipping his wine as England filled up another glass with scotch. England had yelled at France for barging in like an arse, but he had finally dropped it as he also sat on his couch, continuing to drink his alcohol. They sat there in silence as England felt his consciousness beginning to become foggy. Finally, he was able to easily able to avoid all of those painful thoughts.

"So," France said, making England cringe. Why did he have to speak? "When did you remove it?"

England grunted, slumping in his seat. "What day is it?" he asked, his eyes somewhat unfocused. "I lost track of time a while ago."

France paused as he thought over the question. "It's the twenty-fifth," France answered. He must have seen England's still puzzled look as he added, "You visited my house a week ago on the twenty-second. Does that help?"

Drinking more scotch, England thought back over the days as he tried to remember what he had forced himself to forget. "Then it's been three days," England answered nonchalantly. Then he cringed as he actually thought about it. "Th-three days?" He looked down at himself as he realized that he had only done the necessities the past few days. He hadn't changed, hadn't showered, hadn't brushed his hair. He groaned at his weakness. "God, it's been three damn days. How the hell did that happen?"

"Time moves on," France said, patting him on the shoulder, "even if you don't wish it to."

England drank what was left in his glass and poured himself more drink. "I'm such a damn mess," he murmured, filling the glass to the brim. "I haven't been this bad since the Revolution," he said, taking another swig of scotch. "I mean, sure, when that happened, America left me, and I pushed him away. It was horrible, but this time… I don't know why this time is so much worse. Well, maybe it's because—" Another swig of ale. "—because maybe I had more feelings for him. I dunno. Yeah, before, we were just brothers, n' you expect brothers to fight; it's just natural. But this time, we were, we were way more. We were—" He finished off another glass and poured himself another one. "We were… he said h-he loved me. A-and I said I loved him back. And I did love, d-do love him back. I guess that's why… why—"

He jumped as he felt France lay a hand on his shoulder. "Angleterre, it's not a good idea to be drinking and crying at the same time. You won't be able to breathe."

"C-c-cry?" England asked, He touched his face and was filled with self-hatred as he felt trails of tears running down his face. He roughly wiped them away, cursing himself for showing such weakness in front of France. "God dammit," he breathed, placing his glass down on the table. Pressing his palms against his closed eyes, he held his head as he tried to slow down his breathing and calm himself. He could lose himself in his tears later, but not when there were other people to see it.

"So you do love him?"

England looked up at him, surprised by his question. Then he realized that for the first time, he had come out and said that he loved America. He had said it and had done nothing to hide it. Letting out a sigh, England laid his head back in his hands. "More than I could ever explain," England answered.

"Then tell him."

France jumped back at the venomous glare he received from England. "And how the hell do you suggest I do that, idiotic frog?" he spat. "He doesn't remember anything about what happened. How am I supposed to just go up to him when I know he could never return these feelings for me willingly?"

France gave a little laugh, making England extremely tempted to stab him in the throat. "And just how do you know he doesn't return feelings, hmm?"

England gave him a puzzled stare as if the answer was obvious. "Because," he said. "How could someone… he couldn't. I… there's too much wrong with me. I'm too bossy, too stubborn, too cold…"

"You're also rude, foul mouthed, short tempered, a horrible drunk, abusive…" France's list went on and on, each new item added putting more and more weight on England. "…your eyebrows are huge, you're stuck up, you think you're always right, you hold immature grudges, you—" France's list finally ended as England hit him hard in the back of the head with his clenched fist.

"Are you just trying to make me feel worse?" England grumbled, glaring at the Frenchman. "Because if you are, trust me, it's definitely working."

"All I'm saying is," France said, his horrible habit of wrapping his arm around England's shoulder in effect, "sometimes the things that you hate about yourself are the things that America could love about you."

England swatted his arm away as he gave him a dubious stare. "So, you're saying America could love me because I'm an abusive, stuck up drunkard?" he drawled, aiming all of the hatred in his body towards him.

"An abusive, stuck up drunkard with huge eyebrows," France said with a wink. After a swift punch to the ribs, France continued. "I'm just saying you'll never really know how he feels for you until you confess."

"Heh," England huffed, slumping farther on the couch. "Seeing how my bloody luck has played out thus far, I'd take a wager that America'd never speak to me again if I told him how I feel."

He felt France's gaze on him for a few moments, and saw, just out of the corner of his eye, a sly smile crossing the man's face. England glanced at him, suddenly worried about what the man was thinking—he never knew what to expect with France. "Hmm," France said, running his fingers over the stubble on his chin, "and you think _me_ a coward. How humorous."

Abruptly England perked up, his eyebrows furrowing together. "Excuse me?" he murmured, giving France a glare that would have sent a smarter man running for his life. "Would you like to explain just what exactly do you mean by that?"

France smirked, one of his obnoxious laughs filling the room. "Well, Angleterre," he said, crossing his arms, his blue eyes dark with whatever plot he had, "I may not be the best person when it comes to warfare, but at least I can tell a person my true feelings." His smirk grew ever larger as England felt his anger nearing its boiling point. "I mean, you have to be a true coward to not be able to admit your _l'amour_ to your only love."

"I, by no means," England growled, "am a coward."

"Then it should be easy to tell your precious American your feelings."

"And just how the hell am I supposed to do this?" England hissed, his arms crossed furiously. "I can't just call him and blather to him about this. He'd just hang up on me."

France let out a laugh. "Angleterre, there's a World Conference tomorrow!" he said jovially. "Just tell him there! It will—" His sentence was cut off as England grabbed him by the collar, a squeak coming from his throat.

"You brought ale here to get me drunk," England said slowly, trying to keep his rage down so he wouldn't ruin his upholstery with France's blood, "the day before a World Conference? You are a complete and utter prick." He released France as he slumped back against the couch, fuming with anger. "Get out before I grab something to kill you with."

"I will if you promise to tell your American your feelings," France said, his expression looking calm even though he was keeping a good distance between them now. "It'll make you and me happy if you do!"

England sat there seething for a moment, still thinking over the option to grab a sharp implement and shoving it in France's face. He finally gave a sigh of defeat. "If it makes you get out of my bloody house, fine, I promise I'll tell America tomorrow." France was about to say something when England shoved his hand down between the couch cushions and pulled out a dagger—he always kept some weapons hidden in odd places around his house; and old habit left behind from his old pirating days. "Now please remove yourself from my house before I kill you."

France gave a nervous laugh as he grabbed up his things. "Keep to your promise!" he said as he ran through the door, his cape fluttering behind him as he pulled the door shut. England glared at the door, feeling as the alcohol really began to muddle his brain. Not wanting to be horribly hung over the next day, he got up to go get a glass of water—might as well try to flush out the alcohol as soon as possible. As he got water from his water filter, the enormity of what he had promised suddenly hit him full force. He shakily drank his water as he realized that in not even twenty-four hours, he be confessing to America that he loved him—again. Only this time, it very well might be one sided. The thought of being utterly rejected made him feel sick. He ran his fingers through his hair again only to be reminded how disgusting he felt. He set down his glass as he headed back to his room to fetch himself some clean clothes.

Just what was he getting himself in to?

x-x-x-x-x

A depressed America sat on his couch as he stared at the now empty gallon sized ice cream tub. He had a variety of ice creams left in his house that he could eat, but he really wanted some hamburgers. He could make some if he really wanted to, but the ones he made just didn't have the same taste or the same texture or grease and deliciousness as the ones from the Sacred McDonalds. With a sigh, he got up and decided to go pick up some more burgers to lighten up his mood. He thought for a moment about changing his clothes to look nicer, but he figured since he was just going to go to a McDonalds, no dressing up was required. So he jumped up and made to reach for his keys—only to realize that they had been moved from where he had left them last.

Okay, seriously, what the crap was going on here? He had put his keys in the same place for, like, five bajillion years, and now they were gone. He held his breath to contain a growl in his throat as he searched around the general area on the shelf for his keys. He kept filing through the papers that had somehow become neatly stacked, only to find no keys to be found. He moved his search from the shelf to some of the cupboards above, thinking that he might have somehow placed them up there. Getting more and more frustrated, he started shoving papers out of his way, not really caring what he was damaging. About to start screaming, he threw open another cupboard and vigorously searched. Papers began falling out, but he didn't pay attention to him—he was having burger withdrawal here! He didn't have time to be searching through papers! However, he came to a sudden stop when his eyes caught something fluttering out to the floor. He looked down at the paper and called off the search for now—this was more important to him right now.

Carefully, he picked up the picture, feeling guilt well up in him—it was one of his oldest and most favorite pictures of England. It had been carelessly been bent in his search for his keys. His mouth becoming a thin line as he tried to flatten the picture back out to how it had been before. An odd feeling came over as he looked at the picture, his mind going back far into the past. Back when England used to smile. Sometimes when he looked at the picture, he would feel sad upon remembering his childhood and how happy they had both been. But as he looked at the picture now, some other feeling came over him. At first, he couldn't place it, the feeling being so unfamiliar. A shock when through him as he realized what it was: He felt loss. He felt like he had lost the thing that was most important to him, like he had lost everything.

He felt utterly lost.

All of a sudden, America's entire vision went black. He felt his heart pumping, scared and freaked out by what was happening. Was he having a seizure because he hadn't had his hamburger quota or something? But then images started flashing in front of his eyes: England laughing; England smiling; England looking at him with those green eyes he grown so accustomed to over the years. In all of the images, England was giving him a look he had never seen before—a look of longing.

A look of love.

When America's vision returned, he found himself bent over the shelf, holding his head in his hands. His breath was uneven and he felt the room spinning around him. Feeling like he was going to pass out, he stumbled back over to his couch and fell onto it, letting his blue eyes close. What the hell was that? It had been nothing like anything he'd ever experienced before. It wasn't like a dream or a vision or anything like that. It was like… It seemed to be…

_Memories_.

But why would he be 'remembering' things that didn't happen? He knew for a fact that what had just happened, everything he had just seen, had not been a dream—the images were too clear, too vivid, too real. Whatever he had seen wasn't just a figment of his imagination. His mind reeled as he tried to figure out all that was happening to him. He didn't remember anything from the past five days. He was 'remembering' things that he didn't remember happening. Was he going insane? Was he having a stroke or a seizure? He groaned as he felt himself falling farther and farther into confusion.

What was happening to him?

x-x-x-x-x

Le Gasp! America's remembering things? Squee! :D I thought that next chapter was going to be the last one, but not anymore! :) Two more chapters after this! And I cannot wait to write them! Thank you guys for reading! Please review! Make me happy! :)


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you so much for your reviews! I really appreciate them! I'm so glad that you all love the story! It makes me happy that I can write a good story. :D I was a little worried about last chapter, seeing as I was really sick while I wrote it, but it looks like it turned out alright. Thank you all so much for your support! I really couldn't do any of this without you! :)

Please enjoy the next chapter and please review! :D

**(A/N)** During some quick research, I realized that the G8 aka World Conference includes everyone except China. Just letting you guys know so I don't get complaints of "Where's China aru?" It made me sad too, but I decided I might as while try to keep it historically accurate. :)

x-x-x-x-x

Never before had a World Meeting seemed so intimidating to England. When he would have to speak, he would get nervous about the other county's reactions seeing as they often weren't light or kind with their words. But he knew that he'd be able to deal with their criticism by giving snide comments right back to them. However, he did not have to speak today to all of the countries about his opinions—that would have been easy. No, he had to do something that would be much, much harder.

He had to admit his feelings for America.

England cursed himself for his stupidity yesterday and how he had agreed to France's urgings. How dare the git call him a coward! He pulled on his sleeve nervously as he thought of how he could have just chased France out of his house earlier so he wouldn't have had to agree to this stupidity! He let out a large sigh as he straightened out his clothes unnecessarily—he couldn't back out of this now.

The anxiousness shot up in his body as he found himself in front of the door to the meeting room they'd be in today. He gulped as he thought of what he would have to go through today. What if America was already in there? What if America wasn't here today? What if America despised him for what he had to say? What if, what if, what if? He gritted his teeth as he clutched his hand around the door knob. He had to go in—there was no alternate choice. He turned the knob and entered the room.

He had arrived a little early, and quickly found that not everyone had arrived yet. The far side of the table was taken up by the former Axis Powers, Italy clinging to Germany's arm desperately as he was laughing about something. Germany looked annoyed by this, but didn't do anything to make him stop. Japan looked concerned by their actions and kept a distance from them, but also kept a good distance away from Russia who sat next to him, a small creepy smile on his face. The side of the table closest to the door had two seats open. England's heart clenched when he saw America's light brown hair, his body chilling. He seriously considered leaving the room until he realized that he was actually looking at Canada. He gave a mental sigh, glad that he didn't have to admit anything quite yet. Sat down next to Canada was France who was busy checking himself out in a handheld mirror. For a minute, he glared at him for being so stuck up even in public. He was about to take a seat when he realized that the two empty seats were sitting right next to each other. A scream almost escaped him—he was going to have to sit right next to America throughout the whole meeting!

France must have felt his presence behind him because he turned around, a content smirk on his face. "Aah, _bonjour, mon ami_!" he greeted, his hair once again caught in a mysterious wind that sent his golden locks swirling. "How are you today?"

"Move," England demanded, glaring at France with all of the hatred he could muster. "Now."

France snickered. "What if I do not want to?" he asked, slipping his arm around Canada who blushed profusely. "I was having a nice conversation with Canada. You know, about how big he is and such…"

"E-eh?" Canada stammered, his face only becoming redder as he clutched his bear closer to his chest. "France, don't say such weird things…"

"I don't care," England hissed, pointing to the open seats. "Just move over one seat! That's all I'm asking!" If they did that, a seat would be open at both ends, France and Canada being between him and America. He just couldn't sit next to America for right now, or else he would go insane!

France glanced at the seats in thought for a moment, as if considering it. Then an evil smile came to his face. "Are you _scared_, Angleterre?" he drawled, making anger boil up in him. "Why don't you just relax? Surely you _want_ to sit next to your lover?" He let out one of his Frenchie laughs… until England grabbed him by the collar and drug him so his face was only two inches from his own.

"Move or die," England growled. France looked nervous and like he was about to give in and move. But then a smile came to his face. England was about to yell at him for smiling when someone poked him in the middle of his back.

"Dude, what're you doing?"

England froze, feeling his whole body go cold. Very slowly, he turned his head, already knowing what he was going to see. America stood right behind him, his finger still touching his back curiously. His cerulean eyes gazed at him, a nervous smile on his face. His gaze made his body go from frozen to warm in a snap, making the room spin. He let go of France as he turned around to face America, quickly straightening out his perfectly ironed clothes. "Nothing," England said, crossing his arms stubbornly. "Nothing of your concern."

America tilted his head slightly, making England's heart thump. Dammit, he was too cute when he did that. "Okay," he said questioningly as he sat down at the end of the table, leaving the chair next to him open. America looked up at him expectantly, making England blush. "So," he said, patting the chair. "You gonna sit?"

His lips pursed as he looked down at the seat as if it was an electric chair. Giving a sigh as he gave up—it would look suspicious if he denied the seat—he sat down next to him, feeling like the right side of his body next to America was on fire. England looked up only to see several pairs of eyes on him. For a second, he nervously wondered why until he realized that they must have been watching him because of his previous outburst with France. He gave an irritated sigh as he looked down at the table, blood rushing to his face. This did not bode well for the rest of his day.

"Well, let's get started with the meeting," Germany called, standing from his seat. Italy immediately jumped up from his seat as well, still clinging to his arm, a silly smile on his face. Germany looked down at him as he muttered something, making Italy's smile fade, a sad little frown replacing it. Pouting, Italy sat in his chair as he still looked up at him, making some of the other countries laugh—Italy was so cute the way he showed so much affection! Whenever this happened—which was quite often—England would always look away because he thought such displays of love were pathetic. He looked away now because he remembered how America had been like this with him just days before.

As the meeting went on, England did all he could to ignore the fact that America was less than a foot away from him. He wished that he could just turn to him and touch him, kiss him—anything!—without worry. But he knew that, even if somehow America did feel anything for him, he'd back away if he just randomly blurted out that he loved him. He had to approach this carefully, or else it would backfire. He had to come up with a plan, and soon.

"England, what do you think?"

England jumped at his name as his eyes flashed up, feeling the confusion plastered on his face. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for an answer. Blood rushed up to his face as he tried to recall what they had just been talking about. "S-sorry," he said weakly, looking down as he pulled on his sleeve. "I wasn't listening. What are we talking about?"

Germany gave a loud sigh. "We're talking about environmental protection procedures," he said, an intimidating scowl on his face. "What is your opinion on the matter?"

Giving a nervous cough, England sat up straight as he quickly organized his thoughts. "Well, I believe that countries should use less harsh chemicals in fertilizer to help keep soil heal—" England's words cut off as he felt America poke the side of his face.

"But dude!" he said, continuing to poke him in his cheek. "The chemicals do awesome things to the plants! It makes them really big and really good! And then the cows eat them and get radioactive, and then the cows taste really good! If anything, we should put _more_ chemicals in! Then hamburgers would taste even better!"

England felt his eye twitch not only at the stupidity of America's comment, but also because he was touching him. He grabbed his hand to stop him from poking his face and gave him a glare. "You know, that explains a lot about why you act like an idiot constantly."

America's eyes rested for a moment on England holding his hand, but then looked back up at him. "Well, maybe you wouldn't be so grumpy all the time if you actually ate something that wasn't crap," he retorted. England meant to come back at his insult, but was cut off as America poked him in the side with his free hand. He yelped, jumping from the touch as it sent tingles through him. He looked up to see America looking at him curiously. Then he smiled with a look that just screamed trouble. "Are you… ticklish?"

England opened his mouth to deny it, but he couldn't say anything. "Er," he said clumsily, suddenly all too aware of how America's hand was still in his. Not thinking, he let go of it, but immediately regretted it as it found its way to his side, poking him again and making him give another yelp. "D-don't!" he said, scooting over away from him. However, America only took direct commands as challenges. He let out a pathetic cry as America grabbed him by the sides and started squeezing. "Uwaaah!" he cried as he fell off of his chair, America still clinging to him, a mischievous smile on his face.

"Ha ha, England's ticklish!" he yelled, still torturing England's sides as he was on the ground. England tried to get America off of him, but America had a good grip on him and obviously had no intentions of letting him go.

"G-g-get off!" England choked through laughter, his sides aching from the abuse. He grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to push him away, but America had a longer arm length than he did so his aching sides were still in reach. Damn America and his height.

America returned his attempts to get him off with a grin. "Watchya gonna do if I don't?" he taunted, still poking his sides mercilessly. England was about to threaten him when something hit the table, hard.

"_Dummkopfs_!" Germany yelled, making everyone in the room jump (except Russia of course). "Get back in your _verdammt_ seats! _Now_!"

Immediately America stopped tickling England, a bemused look on his face. "Heh, sorry Germany dude! I just never knew England was so ticklish! Ha, so funny!" He looked down at England just as the both of them realized just how they were positioned. England felt himself flush as he saw that America's legs had been straddled around him just below his hips. America's face slightly reddened as he jumped up, turning to head back to his seat. He stopped though and turned back around. "Sorry, England," he said, scratching his head in an embarrassed way. He then put his hand out in an offering manner. "Forgive me?"

England stared at his outstretched hand, startled by it for a moment. He sighed as he smiled and took the hand. America smiled at this and helped pull him back up to his feet. "I'll forgive you," he said, not making direct eye contact, not being able to bear seeing those gorgeous blue eyes. "I'll always forgive you, my lo—" His throat felt strangled as he cut off his sentence, his eyes huge. He looked quickly at America, hoping he didn't realize that he had just almost called him "my love." America seemed confused by how he had so abruptly cut off his sentence, so England quickly added, "M-my lo_ud mouthed_ friend!" Before anything could be said, England rushed back to his seat and clenched his hands together in his lap, refusing to look up.

He was turning into a real idiot.

x-x-x-x-x

The meeting went on without much more excitement happening, seeing as no one wanted to piss off Germany any further. America did his usual fidgeting and odd nonsensical comments, but they seemed to be less able to be contained today. He didn't know why he was having such a hard time focusing today, but he had a hint as to why this was. For some reason, he couldn't settle his nerves because England was sitting right next to him.

It wasn't like this was so unusual—he and America, much to the dislike of the rest of the countries, always sat next to each other. America thought that they were pretty good friends besides that whole Revolutionary War thing, and England was one of the only people America knew he could tell things and know that they would only stay with him. Sure, America was good friends with Japan too, but he knew his secrets could be trusted with Japan only because Japan isolated himself so much. England—he talked with everyone, yet kept his and America's secrets to himself. Only friends did that, right?

But there was something different between them now, and America was completely confused about it. He didn't know how long these feelings had been lasting—a few months maybe? He would look at England and remember back when he was his big, strong, brave brother and how he always protected him. He would think back to then and miss his presence, wish that they were closer than they were now. He wished that they could just sit down and talk like they did centuries ago, just talk like good old friends. But somehow every time they got into a discussion nowadays, America would always find a way to piss England off. He really didn't mean too, it was just that England was still sensitive about some things. America didn't blame him one bit—he hurt too sometimes if he thought about things too much.

"Alright, let's have a quick break," Germany announced, his voice strained. He suddenly looked up at America with a look of pure fury. "_Do not _go buy yourself a coffee, or else I will kill you."

America looked at him, a little startled by the threat, but just laughed it off. "Hah, okay! I was just planning on getting a Mountain Dew!" Before Germany could come over and pummel him for his arrogance, America got up and walked towards the door. He loved being able to tease people. It was so fun! He mentally cringed at this though—no wonder England was angry at him all the time.

"Er, America?" He turned his head to see England walking up to his, a somewhat nervous expression on his face. America cocked his head curiously—what was up with him today? First he looked like he was seriously about to kill France this morning, and then he had just been stumbling over his words constantly. It was completely unlike him, seeing as he constantly criticized him for his incorrect grammar. Maybe he was feeling sick or something?

"Yeah, s'up?" America asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You need something?"

England looked away for a moment, looking like he was about to have a panic attack. "I, er… need to talk with you for a few minutes."

Why did he look so nervous? It was kind of freaking America out, seeing as England was always in such a holier-than-thou attitude. "Okay," America said, putting a smile on his face, trying to reassure England that there was nothing to worry about. "What's up?"

England paused for a moment, looking like he was thinking of backing out. He was about to ask if he was okay, but England grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him out of the room behind him. "In private," England said as he continued to drag America behind him.

"Eh?" America said, surprised by how hard England was pulling him forward. This must have been important if he was making such a big deal out of it. England held fast to his wrist as they walked through the halls, going farther and farther into the building. England must have been dragging him for a good two minutes, making America only more and more confused—what did he need to talk about that was so secret they needed to find the most isolated part of the building? Finally, England chose a random room and pulled America inside with him.

"Dude, seriously, what's up?" he asked for what must have been the twentieth time. England had ignored all of his questions as they had been walking as if he thought he'd get tired of asking eventually. However, he had gotten his stubbornness from him, so he should have known better.

England's shoulders tensed as he turned to face him. "Well, you see," he said, but his voice faded off, his green eyes staring off at the corner of the room. "I, er… I had… a question to ask you."

Suddenly, America's brain jolted as he remembered something. "Dude!" he said, making the other jump from surprise. "I have a question for you too, now that I think about it!"

England looked extremely nervous, but he pulled down on his sleeve as he made his face a mask again. "Alright," he said, crossing his arms. "Well, I… Y-you go first then I suppose. What do you need to ask me?"

"Okay, dude," he said, trying to think of the best way to ask his question and not sound like a complete crazy person. "Well, a couple of days ago, I was just chilling at my house, minding my own business, y'know? Nothing really weird happened, but then I saw this picture of yo—" He paused, not wanting to sound like a total creeper. "Er, this picture. And then I just saw images and weird things. Like…" he paused again, trying to come up with the best word to describe what he saw. "Like… well, like memories. Only I didn't remember them happening. But they were way too real to be dreams or something like that! They looked so freakin' real, man!" He looked up to see England's reaction to this, and felt surprised as he saw that England had gone a shade paler. America was about to ask what was wrong when England finally spoke.

"Just what are you remembering?" he asked slowly, his hands tugging down on his clothing. America knew that this little tick of his was a habit he had when he was nervous. America wondered what he was so worried about.

"Well," America said slowly, trying to think of what he should tell him. "Um, I've seen… er… it's mostly been you." England somehow managed go pale and blush at the same time. "You were happy. Really happy. The happiest I've seen you in, like, ever. And I don't know why I'm seeing things like that, or why they're so clear." America hesitated as he watched England seem to shrink, his mask somehow still on his face, though his emotions were still breaking through. America sighed as he continued. "And that's not it," he said, opening and closing his hands in his pockets. "The other day I woke up and found out that I had missed five days. I didn't remember anything, and things around my house had changed. It really freaked me out. After that, that's when I found the picture." America paused once again to let the new information sink in, letting England rebuild his mask of faux calmness. "So," America said. "What do you think is going on?"

England stood frozen for a few moments, America able to see thoughts running frantically through his mind behind those green eyes. England took in a large breath, obviously trying to calm himself. "I think," England said slowly, cautiously, "that I can't help you figure out what happened. I really don't know what could have happened to cause that."

America knew England well enough to know that he was lying. He was lying directly to his face, and America had no idea why. But he knew that, with England being so stubborn, he would never tell him if the truth if he had already decided to lie. Knowing he was defeated, he sighed. "Okay," he said. "So. What was your question for me?"

England once again froze as if surprised by the fact that he had a question. His eyes flicked back and forth as if looking for a distraction, something to make them forget about the current conversation. "I…" he said, his voice strained. "How… Do you… Do we… What do you think about me?" he finally blurted, his face red.

The question startled America, having not at all expected it. He paused as he thought it over—what did he think of England? "Well," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I think you're a nice guy. You're my closest friend, and I trust you. Sure, you're usually grumpy and kind of a douche sometimes, but you're a nice guy if you actually let people get close to you." He shifted his weight from one leg to another, feeling slightly awkward and on the spot. Such a weird question! "I think you make good tea too. I usually don't drink it, but yours is good."

But America's mind went farther into thought as he continued to map out his answer. He did think England was a really nice guy—at least when you were on his good side. He had grown up with him, and England had always looked after him, even if it hurt ended up with him hurting himself. England had really cared for him, and even if America acted stupid sometimes, he really did appreciate him and all he had done for him. Then the last few months entered his brain, almost begging to be let out. How he would be sitting in a World Meeting and just find himself staring at England; how he would listen to England talk and be lulled by his accent. There was really a lot that he liked about England—but surely England could never return those kinds of feeling for him. England liked to be remote, liked to be left alone. Surely he would never want to be friends or something more with anyone. He just seemed too cold for such a thing. "Well," he asked, his hand still in his hair, "what do you think about me?" He saw the look on England's face and blushed. "J-just out of curiosity!" he added quickly.

Now England paused as he also thought over the qualities of America. "You are kind," he said slowly, looking down at the floor. "You always try to save everyone, even if you know that the chances of success aren't too great. You look out for people. You are funny, though sometimes your jokes are in bad taste. You always try to make people happy, try to make life better for others. Sometimes you're rather immature, but you have that optimism that many people lack now. You never give up. And no matter how many people hurt you, you're always happy and willing to forgive. You are a really good person. Better than I am."

America felt his face redden at all of the comments, a little surprised that England was able to point out as many as he did. He had expected England to tell him he had none or tell him to "bugger off" but he had actually told America his good qualities. America gave him a smile. "Thanks," he said, making the other blush as well. "Now," he said carefully. "Can I ask why you were wondering?"

England froze up yet again, his eyes moving around the room frantically. "It's something…" England began, his voice fading off yet again. "It's okay if you don't feel… I just… we're friends, aren't we?" he blathered, his face only becoming more and more worried as he continued.

Smiling, America laid his hand on his shoulder. He could be so ignorant sometimes. "Yeah," he said. "We're friends."

England looked down at where America's hand lay on his shoulder, looking as if he was shocked that he was able to touch him. America thought that he was being offended by his touch and was about to move his hand. He found this difficult though when England took it with his hand, intertwining his fingers with his. "America," he said, looking down at the joined hands. "America, I… I love you."

For a moment, America just stared at England, his mind trying to figure out what he had just heard—love? He said that he _loved_ him? He meant to say more, but a familiar feeling of faintness came over him as his entire vision went black. He felt his head land on something, but wasn't able to look to see what it was as things flashed before his eyes. At first, they were memories he clearly remembered from his childhood. He saw himself running after England through a green field, a smile on his face. "_I wov you, Engwand!_" he cried happily as he stayed directly behind him. It flashed to him and England sitting and reading, America in England's lap, his head pressed against England's kind, loving shoulder. "_I wov you_," he said softly as he faded off to sleep, being consoled by England's accent. Images of England teaching him how to shoot, how to hunt, how to tie a tie. Then flashes of the Revolutionary War, images of England on the ground, sobbing as he lost his precious America. _I'm sorry_, he so desperately wanted to say but was unable to. Images of all their meetings during World War II, how England had finally started talking to him again. How they had finally once again become friends. Then new images entered his mind—ones that he didn't recognize, yet felt so familiar. England in his arms as he carried him to bed, England cooking for him, England hugging him. Then the image of them kissing flashed through his head, sending a jolt through him. "_England, I love you_," he had said, cuddled up next him, sharing their warmth. Then England had finally said it.

"_I love you too_."

Finally, the images ended, and America was coming back to the present. He opened his eyes, his head hurting from all of the memories he had just experienced. He felt his face rubbing against fabric and a loud voice in his ear. A British voice. He lifted his head to find that it had been on England's shoulder as he had been passed out. Finally, England's noise became words. "…okay? Answer me! Are you okay? America!"

"What?" he said quietly, clutching his head in mild pain. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just dizzy."

He felt England grab him by the shoulders, making him sit upright. _Wait, sit?_ He looked down and saw that they were on their knees on the ground. England must have caught him and lowered him after he had passed out. "What was that?" England asked, his face full of concern. "What happened just now?"

"I'm not sure," America answered, wiping sweat from his face. "I just saw more memories. A lot of them."

England stared at him, his hands still holding him up. "What did you see?"

America paused as he watched England and really looked at him. Those green eyes filled with worry, his large brows furrowed with concern. His clothes looked like they were getting wrinkled, but he didn't seem to care at the moment. All he cared about right now was him. All he had ever done was care about him.

He smiled as he leaned forward, letting his face inch towards England's. "Everything," he answered, a note of wonder in his voice. "England. I remember everything."

x-x-x-x-x

Kyaaa! He remembers! AAAH! :D See England? Having feelings isn't bad. ;D

Also, I got the whole tickle fight idea from **Chatouilleux?** by **KittyLovesHetalia**. So I didn't steal it per say… just adapted it. :) You should read it by the way! It's FrUk, but still cute. :)

Thank you so much for reading! Please review! :D


	9. Chapter 9

So, so, so sorry it took this long for me to get this chapter up! I swear, the whole world has been against me for the past few weeks! First I got sick with stomach flu where I couldn't even hold water down, then I got a really bad cold. Oh, and all of that happened the week before final exams. -_- Oh, and then I got the wonderfulness of a ROOT CANAL! Guh… I was high on pain meds for a few days, and didn't even touch the story—believe me, me plus pain meds equals crappy writing and editing. The madness of Christmas didn't help much either. XD Oh, and I've just had straight up writers block too. :P Lots of fun going on over here! XD

Okay, okay, enough excuses from me. I really am sorry it took me this long to update. :( Oh, but there is another reason with this chapter being so hard to write: _this is the very last chapter_!

I just want to let all of you know how much I have loved writing this story. It's the first multi-chapter fan fiction I've worked on in years, and I have thoroughly enjoyed it. I have loved getting feedback from everyone and hearing the love. :) I wouldn't have been able to do any of this without you! Thank you so much for the support! I haven't had the pleasure to meet any of you, but I love you all anyways! :)

So, just quick warning for this chapter… One, it's a bit longer than the others… I had to sum everything up! And it's still going to be rated T, but… stuff happens! ;D Nothing too bad, but I figure I might as well warn you beforehand just in case. :D

Now, after an insanely long a/n, here's what you have all been waiting for: the final chapter of **Curses!**

x-x-x-x-x

England felt his throat close off, utter shock taking over his body. America gazed at him the same way he had under the spell. His cerulean eyes seem to look deep into him as if he could see into his soul; as if he could see everything there was to know about him. A look of understanding him perfectly, both the good and the bad, and loving him anyway.

"Everything?" England repeated, still clutching America's shoulders, now more for his own support than America's. "Everything about… about what?"

America smiled, his expression warm. It made England feel like he was melting. "I remember everything about the five days I missed," America explained. "I remember you staying at my house. I remember you saying that you loved me."

England felt himself blush furiously, both from embarrassment and something else he was so unfamiliar with—was it happiness? "Everything?" he whispered, clutching America's shoulders as if he let go, the moment would leave and never come back.

America's smile sent his mind reeling as he felt his hand gently rest beneath his chin. The distance between their lips closed, just barely touching. "Everything," he whispered back, his lips grazing England's as he spoke.

The whole scenario just didn't click in England's mind. For days, he had wanted this contact, wanted America to remember. But now that it was here, without even thinking, he jumped back, his eyes wide with shock. Why was he kissing him? Why did he remember? Why was any of this happening?

"How?" England whispered, cursing himself as he heard his voice quiver. "How did this…? Why do you remember?"

America paused, giving England a puzzled look. "I'm not sure," he said, his hands clasped together awkwardly in his lap. "The flashes happened randomly. I would look at a picture, and I'd remember. Then you said that you loved me, and…" He paused again as some sort of realization showed itself in his eyes. "They jogged my memories," America said, his eyes shooting up to England's. "I found a picture of you, and memories of you came to me. Then you said you loved me, and memories of us saying that came to me. It makes sense—they jogged my memories somehow!"

England thought this over, still trying to figure out how this was possible. The spell was meant to be permanent, so it shouldn't have been broken so easily. None of it made any sense to him whatsoever.

"England?" He looked up at him, and suddenly realized just how hurt he looked. "What's wrong? I remember. Isn't that a good thing?"

"N-no!" England said, clenching his fists. "You remember! You shouldn't be remembering! What if that means the curse is back? What if that means you still love me just because of the damn spell!"

His words made America jump back, seeming to shock him. England felt pain at making him feel upset, but he couldn't be happy. He couldn't be happy knowing that the only love he had in life was a fake one. England lowered his head, not wanting to look at him any longer. It hurt him far too much.

"I loved you long before the curse happened."

For a moment, England continued to let his head hang, the words bouncing around in his head, not quite making sense. Finally, his mind deciphered them, and he lifted his head to look at America. The American's face was so focused and determined, a kind of expression that made the thought of him lying absolutely impossible. America was speaking the truth. "Before?" he whispered, barely able to believe it. It couldn't possibly be true—who would ever love him willingly?

"I thought I wanted independence because I just wanted to be your equal," America said, his eyes never leaving England's. "I thought I just wanted to be my own country, be just me, America. But, now that I think about it, I think I did it all just…" He paused, his eyes flicking away for a moment as his face reddened slightly. "I did it so I could be an equal to you. So I'd be on the same level as you. So we could be…_more_ than brothers, more than just allies." Ever so slowly, America edged closer to England, inches between their faces. "I've wanted to be with you all of this time. The curse just finally gave me the courage to act on it."

For what seemed like years, they sat there as England stared at America, all that had been said being processed. America had loved him since before the curse. Somehow, America had found a reason to love him among the thousands of reasons not to. Somehow, he remembered something that he wasn't supposed to. But, as England really began to think about it, he realized something—yes, things were confusing, and yes, there were unanswered questions. But what he suddenly realized was this:

He couldn't care less about those questions.

Not thinking about the questions that still needed answers, not caring about anything that could go wrong, he grabbed America by the collar as he pulled him into a kiss, his other hand burying itself in America's light brown hair. America seemed surprised by England's sudden passionate kiss, but he quickly began to kiss him back. Only unlike last time, England wasn't going to let America lead. He quickly shoved America down flat on his back, now hovering over him, his lungs already starving for oxygen. America stared up at him with those gorgeous blue eyes, looking confidant. England loved that look, and returned his lips to America's.

America's arms were wrapped around England's neck, holding him close. England used one elbow to balance himself over America, his other hand still in his hair. The scent of America was nearly overwhelming as England desperately breathed it in, now also able to taste him. He had missed being so close to him, being able to touch him. It had been the worst kind of withdrawal he had ever had to experience, and he never wanted to go through it again. "God, I missed you," England gasped, breaking away long enough to peer at his beloved American. Face reddened, he was also short of breath. However, he didn't seem to mind as he smiled up at him.

"I missed you too," he said, his hand trailing down the side of his face. The feel of his fingers grazing England's skin tingled, making England's nerves feel like they were short-circuiting. He gave another kiss to his lips, and then caught America's earlobe lightly between his teeth. America let out a little gasp, but made no attempt to make him stop. The taste of America's skin was one that England had never imagined could even exist. He tasted sweet, his skin softer than he thought was possible. England pulled America's collar away from his neck, leaving the skin of his throat bare. He placed a light kiss as the base of his neck where it and his shoulder connected, and then began exploring it with his tongue. His skin tasted sweet down here too.

"Ah!" America gasped, twitching beneath his touch. "Eh, England, the meeting…"

"I don't bloody care about the meeting," England replied, ignoring his protests as he began to pull off his bomber jacket. "I have been without you for too long. I want you, _need_ you."

America pushed England away a little bit, only making England's movements more frantic. "C-can't we leave first?" he asked, his face turning red. "I mean, just so no one finds us? Cuz if we're gonna do it, then I'd just wanna be with you."

England looked down at him, his body cursing him as he tried to stop his movements. "I don't know if I can wait that long," he purred, his hand suddenly going much lower.

"I think—_holy shit_, England!" he cried as England's hand just happened to slip between his legs. "D-dude, c'mon! Let's just leave! If we're not going to go to the meeting—" England jerked his hand upward, causing America to cut his sentence off with a gasp, his eyes going wide. "G-God, England," he moaned, his face going another shade darker.

"You're that scared of being found with me?" England asked, feeling slightly hurt. America had constantly made moves on him under the spell, but apparently when he took the initiative, it was wrong. Damn hypocritical American.

America seemed to sense his hurt, giving a sigh. "I don't mind if people know we're together," America said. "It's just I'd rather them find out because we told them, not because they walked in on us banging each other."

England paused to think things over. He guessed that America had a point—it would be rather awkward for someone to walk in or even just overhear them. Giving a sigh of defeat, England plopped himself down on the floor next to him. "Fine," he complained, feeling a pout on his face. "Then let's go already."

America let out a chuckle, his hand lightly tapping England's head. "And you call me impatient. Jeeze, I think you've been around France too much."

Letting out a laugh, England sat up as he began to get to his feet. "He has been a rather bad influence on me lately," he admitted, straightening out his crinkled clothes. "But I guess it all worked out well in the end." Now to his feet, he reached out his hand in an offering manner. With a smile, he said, "Forgive me?"

A smile came to America's face. "Huh. I feel like I've heard this before," he retorted, a smirk on his face. He put his hand in England's as he pulled him up. "Yeah, I guess I can forgive you, seeing as I love you and all that jazz."

They kept their hands together as they walked out of the room, America laughing at England's eagerness to leave. But England finally had all he had ever wanted.

He finally had America.

x-x-x-x-x

England felt himself waking up, and despised the feeling. His head ached and his stomach hurt. He wanted nothing more than to just stay in bed and continue to sleep. Drearily, he thought back to the dream had had just had. It was a distant memory, but he knew that it had been a good one. America had been in it. He and America had been together…

Suddenly, he felt like his whole being had been crushed as he realized just what his dream had been. He had just dreamed that America remembered everything, that America had loved him for a long time! It was as if his body had become hollow as he felt his dream slipping from his reality. None of it had happened. None of it had been real. He had just dreamed the whole thing up, lost in his own little perfect world where nothing could go wrong. And how could he have ever thought that America would fall for him anyways? England knew he always acted like a git to everyone and always pushed America away. Of course none of it had happened. He felt tears come to his still closed eyes—why did he have to have such a wonderful dream? He wanted to die. He turned his head to bury it in his pillows, maybe even suffocate himself. However, he noticed three things immediately.

One, his pillow had a heartbeat. Two, his pillows were warm and soft and had the feel of skin. And three, his pillows smelled strongly of cinnamon sugar and coffee.

Jolting up, England finally opened his eyes to take a closer look at his 'pillows.' Lying next to him was a fast asleep America, his light brown hair poking out all around his head. His mouth was partially open, breathing soft breaths in his sleep. It took a moment for England to realize that both of them were shirtless and, on closer inspection, pant-less. Finally, the night before started coming back to him. He and America—they'd slept together.

And, God, it had been amazing.

Happier than mere words could ever explain, England wrapped his arms around his America, laying his head just beneath his chin. "It was real," he murmured to himself, getting closer to America as to absorb more of his warmth.

A small groan came from America, causing England to sit up again. America's eyelids twitched slightly, opening to reveal his sky blue irises. His eyes seemed to be unfocused at first, but quickly found England. He gave a smile, making England feel a rush go through his body. "Hey, hon," he murmured sleepily, his hand coming up to lightly touch the side of England's face. "Sleep well?"

Hon. America had just called him _hon_. A smile broke out across his face as he laid himself back down next to his America, his arms around his waist. "It was the best nights of sleep I've had in a long time," England answered, his head resting on America's shoulder. Just being able to feel his touch was amazing. He was so glad that it hadn't been a dream, that America was really here with him.

America chuckled slightly, patting England's head with his other arm. "I'm glad," he said. "Kind of random, but do you think you could get off my shoulder?" For a moment, England felt extremely hurt at the request—why didn't America want him cuddling like that, stupid git. Quickly, America added, "You've been on it all night, and I can't feel my fingers."

_Oh_. England sat up once again so America could bring his arm back in with a slight grimace, complaining about the pins and needles feeling in his arm. England sat back on the bed, continuing to let himself bathe in the moment. He was in bed with America. He had never been able to imagine something as great as this. Even after spending the night with each other, a shock went through England as America snuggled up to him again, his head now on England's shoulder, arms now winding around England's waist, twitching slightly as he grazed his ticklish sides. God, his touch was so warm! How was he able to contain all of that heat? England found his own arm wrapping around America's shoulders, running his fingers through America's hair. How he had missed being able to touch him, being able to just be with him. He let himself relax, letting his eyes close, just enjoying the moment.

"England," America said, only getting an 'mhm' as a response. "Kind of a weird question, but… well… Just how many times did we do it last night?"

The question sent a huge blush to England's face, his green eyes flashing back open. "Huh," he said, using his free hand to scratch his head awkwardly. "Um… well… we switched…b-being on top… an equal amount of times, right?" He cursed himself for being so embarrassed. Why should he be so flustered? They had had… they had… God, they had had _sex_! Why was it so hard to say?

However, he felt America's face against his shoulder become hotter at the discussion—so he was comforted that he wasn't the only one feeling awkward. "Yeah, we did," America answered, his hand nervously drumming his fingers against the edge of England's rib cage. "I remember…er…" He paused, England feeling his face growing warmer. Finally he just blurted, "I remember topping two or three times."

England looked down at him, cocking an eyebrow. "Two or three?" he repeated dubiously. "I clearly remember being on top five times. At least." America's face grew even hotter, England feeling his muscles tense. "Well," he said, his eyes flicking in the opposite direction of America, "you did seem…er…you were…"

"I got lost in it?" America filled in, his fingers quickening their drumming.

A small chuckle escaped him, patting America on the head. "Yes," he replied. "You were very lost in it. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing of course."

"Hah, yeah, you didn't seem to mind when I _got lost in it_," America teased, causing more blood to rush to England's face. "I mean, with the way you were moaning and—"

"Oh, shut it, bloody tosser," England quipped, smacking America lightly on the head, only receiving a laugh from the American in return.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," America said apologetically, snuggling up closer to him, "it _was_ probably the best night I've ever had."

England glared down at him. "_Probably_?"

America cringed at his wording. "Gah, sorry! _Definitely_!"

Still not convinced, England withdrew his arm from around America and roughly turned on his side facing away from him. "_Probably_," he scoffed, furrowing his thick eyebrows together. "Damn American." However, this only ended with America's arms quickly wrapping around him, now being pulled back against him.

"England!" America whined, nuzzling his face against England's. "I'm sorry. Last night was amazing! I loved every moment of it! I'm sorry for talking like an idiot!"

A smirk crept across England's face, liking to tease him like this. "I still don't forgive you," he taunted, stubbornly crossing his arms.

America huffed, his breath against his bare skin sending chills down England's spine—not that he was going to let America know that he liked the feeling. "England," he crooned, somehow managing to snuggle in even closer to him. "I'm sorry," he said again, slightly tightening his arms around him. "Please?"

"No," England replied. He wasn't going to give in that easily—he was still Great Britain after all!

America went silent for a second, making England worried that maybe he had pushed this too far. He was thinking of turning to make sure he was okay when a sudden shiver went through him as America's lips laid against his ear. "_Arthur_," he purred, sending another shiver through England as his human name was used. "_Please_, Arthur?"

Finally, England's stubbornness broke down. How could he deny when his human name was said like that? "Fine," he grumbled, slitting his eyes as America won yet another argument. How was he always able to do that?

"Yay!" America cheered, tightening his arms around England, causing the air to rush out of his lungs. After some violent coughing, America released England, letting him get up. Damn America and his ridiculous strength. England walked over to where their clothes had carelessly been tossed the night before, picking up America's pile.

"Get dressed, git," he huffed, unceremoniously tossing America's clothes at his face. America caught some of them before they hit him, but had to struggle to remove them so he could breathe correctly. England snickered at this, but stopped when he actually took time to examine him. Blood rushed up to his face as he finally noticed that there were bruises all over his body. _Love bites_? he thought embarrassedly, realizing that they had been made by him. The night before had been rather crazy, but… well, he hadn't remembered it being _that_ crazy!

"Ya like what ya see?" America said, breaking through England's thoughts. It wasn't until then that England realized that he must have been staring at him for a while. He quickly shook his head, wandering over to his closet for clean clothes.

"I just noticed that you were…er… marked up is all," England muttered, not daring to look up as he rifled through his clothes, trying to keep himself preoccupied.

America laughed, causing England to get nervous. What was so funny? "Well, dude," he said between laughs, "I can't say you fared much better!" England's head shot up at that comment, glaring at the American. Just what did he mean by that? Random clothes in hand, he strode over to his bathroom connected to his bedroom, about to see just what America meant. The clothes in hand quickly found their way to the floor, the Brit's mouth agape at the reflection in the mirror. Right there on his neck was a huge love bite, there for anyone to see! It would be hard to hide even wearing a turtleneck! All down his chest and stomach, even on his arms, he was covered with love bites! What the hell had he been thinking? That stupid, inconsiderate, selfish, greedy, unbelievably sexy—

"BASTARD!" he cried indignantly, slapping his hand to his neck to cover the prominent bruise. He found himself stomping back to the bed, America actually looking fearful as what must have been a thick aura of murderous rage emanated from him. "You bloody, irresponsible, inconsiderate, idiotic friggin _prick!_" He so just wanted to slap the idiot across the face, but knew that that wouldn't help anything—hell, it would probably just make him feel worse! "At least when I did it, I kept it in places where you could _hide them_! But you? _You_, you bloody wanker, decide to put them where every damn person in the whole bleeding world can see them!" A huge line of complaints and profanities continued to stream from him, his rising anger only seeming to amuse America more and more. "—inconsiderate and selfish and _stop laughing at me!" _he cried, America's laughter only pissing him off even more. "What the bloody hell is so damn funny, you stupid bastard?"

America continued laughing, holding his stomach as he was doubled over, his face red. "S-sorry, Artie," he choked, doing best to look up at him through his huge laughs. "You're just so cute when you're angry!"

For a moment, England was about to yell at him for calling him cute until he caught something else he had said. "What?" he said, slightly cocking his head. "What did you just call me?"

America seemed a little confused by the question, but just laughed it off. "What, don't you like 'Artie'?" he asked, a huge smile on his face. "I totally think we should have nicknames or pet names! Something cool like that!"

However, England wasn't amused. "Don't call me that," he huffed, crossing his arms. "I don't like it. Artie sounds stupid."

Bringing out his best puppy dog face, America shuffled closer to the edge of the bed, looking up at England with those blue eyes of his. "Please?" he begged, even going so far as to have small tears in his eyes—though they may have been there because of his obnoxious laughing. "Please let me call you Artie! I'll let you call me whatever you want, just please let me call you Artie!"

England just glared at him, refusing to give in to his pouting—even though it was rather cute. "No," he answered. "Why can't you just call me England? I'd even be fine with you calling me Arthur. Why Artie?"

America stuck out his lower lip pathetically. "Arthur just sounds so sophisticated, so formal," he complained. "And I don't wanna be all formal with you! I wanna be informal, wanna just call you a by nickname when we're together! I wanna call you something special, something that only I call you!" America's words sent a small blush up to England's face, striking a chord with him. Something that only America called him? Even though it sounded nice, he was about to decline once again until America added, "We are boyfriends now!"

For some reason, the term 'boyfriends' made England somehow choke on air. "B-b-boyfriends?" he stammered, feeling like his face was on fire. He really didn't understand why the words bothered him so much—seeing as they had had sex and everything, it really shouldn't have.

America seemed to think the same thing. "Yeah," he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "_Boyfriends_. And as your _boyfriend_, I want to call you Artie."

Since when was America able to make valid points? Giving a huge sigh, England gave up once again. "Fine, if it'll make you so God damn happy, call me Artie. Whatever."

"Yay, Artie!" America was about to jump up and give him a hug, but England stuck his hand out, palm facing out towards him in the international sign for 'Stop moving, idiot!'

"You can hug me when you get dressed," he argued, dropping his arm to his side. "Really, I'm tired of just standing and arguing when we're both naked. It's rather weird."

America gave him a weird look that—to England's sudden concern—quickly turned into a flirtatious one. "Well, you don't have to be standing up," he purred, abruptly grabbing England by his wrists. Before England could even attempt to get away, he found himself pinned on the bed beneath America, his blue eyes hungry.

"Is this how you plan to end all of our arguments?" England gasped, feeling blood rush up to his face and down to… other places. America smirked, suddenly devouring England's lips with his own.

"Of course, my Artie."

x-x-x-x-x

"Food isn't made to be glared at," England complained as he was somehow able to continue eating his scones that should have been outlawed decades ago. "I know that you have to be hungry."

Truth was, America was freaking _starving_! France had been right: sex _was_ a hard workout! Though it was much more enjoyable than actually going to the gym and working out. No way that actual exercise could ever feel that good! But, even though his stomach was running low and he was feeling like he was going to die soon if he didn't eat anything, England's cooking still didn't sound too great. He knew that, with them being boyfriends now and everything, he should just eat it and not complain, but it was really hard! Besides, England was going to limit how much he could eat anyways. Right now, five double cheeseburgers with a large order of fries and a diet soda sounded really good. Not that England would even let him get close to a McDonalds while he was at his home.

Summoning up some courage, America began to nibble at the food, trying to ignore the burned taste of death that were scones. Deciding to just suffer through it and get it over with, he shoved the whole thing in his mouth, chewing it as fast as he could to just try to fill his begging stomach.

"Don't choke, twit!" England cautioned, his brows furrowing in both irritation and concern. He didn't really have to worry though—America inhaled his food half the time, so he really didn't have an issue with choking. Plus, as he had found out last night, he had a very good gag reflex—didn't have to worry about him choking on anything!

With the scones finally gone, America took a swig of milk, trying to get rid of the flavor. He really was trying to like England's food, he really was! He was just a picky eater—he couldn't help it! "So," he said before England could make any more complaints about how he ate his food. "I'm going to call you Artie! What do you wanna call me?"

England seemed surprised by the question, but his eyes sunk to the table as he began to think. "Couldn't I just call you Alfred?" he asked.

"Nuh-uh!" America answered. "I told you, I don't wanna be formal! It has to be a nickname or a pet name, something like that! Hey, how about Alfie?"

His suggestion only received a disapproving glare. "I refuse to call you _Alfie_," he said, spitting the name as if it was poisonous. England's eyes returned to the table, resting his chin on his entwined fingers. America smirked at just how much thought he was putting into this. "Perhaps I could just call you love? It's simple enough."

America gave a little sound of uncertainty. "I don't mind you calling me that, but it doesn't really sound like a nick name. Maybe you could call me Al or something."

England looked like he didn't mind the suggestion this time, but, still being England, was still being stubborn. "Or I could call you a Yankee," he chided, crossing his arms with a snide smirk. "I'm sure you'd like that."

"Aww, c'mon Artie!" he pleaded, putting his pout face back on. "Please? Just call me Al! Call me Al! It's nice and easy! Please?"

Giving another agitated huff, England said, "Fine, I'll call you Al. Stupid git."

He flashed a quick smile, feeling it grow only wider as he saw red rise up in the other's cheeks. "Thanks, hon."

Another huff escaped him, his beautiful green eyes drifting off to the corner of the room. "Sure, love."

x-x-x-x-x

"Why are you still looking at that?" England lifted his eyes for a moment to see America's curious face as he wandered back into the room after grabbing some Jaffa cakes. America had been pouting for a while that England had never introduced them to him before, but England just came back at him with how America had been too stubborn to try any of his food. His hands now full of the snacks, he sat down next to England, eying the spell book in his lap. "What are you trying to do now?"

Taking one of the Jaffa cakes before they were all gone, England returned his attention to the book, his eyes skimming the page. "I'm just trying to figure out how the curse was broken is all," he answered, taking a nibble of the cake. "I'm just still so confused about it all."

America scooted a little closer to try to get a better look at the book, but England moved the book away from him. "Not after last time," he said, giving America a slight glare. "I'm not going to let you almost kill me again."

A small scowl crossed America's face. "I didn't mean to!" he complained, slumping as he pouted. "I just thought it would be cool if we could both do magic, that's all."

Shaking his head, England shouldered him playfully, returning his attention yet again to the book. There had to be something that explained how the spell had been broken. He had meant for it to be permanent, and usually his spells worked quite well. This was just bizarre for them to be broken so easily. There had to be a reason for this to have happened.

"Do you think you could explain just what happened again for me?" England asked, flipping through more of the pages.

"Uh, sure," America answered, finishing off his sixth Jaffa cake. "Well, I was looking for my keys so I could buy more hamburgers, cuz all of my others were yucky and stale cuz I had missed five days and stuff. But then I couldn't find my keys, so I started looking in my shelves. Then I found a picture of you, and I suddenly felt like I had lost you—well, cuz I had! Then I had flashbacks of the five days, but it didn't make any sense, because I didn't remember them. If that makes sense."

England nodded, sorting out the story in his head. It was obvious that America seeing his picture had caused some of the memories to slip back into his recognition. But the reason for this happening was still shrouded in mystery. Why would they just suddenly be remembered like that?

Near the back of the book, England found a section that he rarely read—the section on emotions and spells. When he had first been learning about magic and spell casting, it had often been said that spells could be much more or less powerful, depending on the emotions of both the castor and the cursed. However, he always highly doubted this, seeing as he felt that emotions often got in the way of everything and were just overall useless. Surely they couldn't have that much of an effect on anything. However, after the past few days, he was beginning to believe that they did actually have some power. Finally, he found the category he had been looking for. _Amor_—love. He quickly skimmed the page, and nearly gagged as he read it.

"What's wrong?" America asked, England feeling his hand place itself on his back. "You okay? What's wrong?"

"This," he said, pointing at the line, feeling his brows furrow. "It's so… so…"

"What?" America pushed, his face concerned.

"It's so… _cliché_!" England finally said, reading it over again, trying to see if it could possibly mean anything else. "_Quilibet potest frangi alica diligunt verissima,_" he read aloud, his finger trailing under it as he read it. "_Any spell can be broken by love most true_."

America switched from staring at England to staring at the book, his face disbelieving at first. Then he began laughing, _loud_. "S-seriously?" he choked, laughing into England's shoulder. England himself couldn't help but laugh at how cliché it was, how ridiculously simple it was. Love broke a spell that was supposed to last forever. How ludicrous!

"It sounds like the plotline to one of your stupid romantic comedies," England countered, hitting his American on the top of his head. "I mean, how is this even serious?"

"Well, whatever," America said, keeping his head laid on England's shoulder, still giving weak little laughs. "I guess whatever ends up with us together is fine with me." He snuggled in closer to England, wrapping his arms around his waist, and he swore that he hit all of his ticklish spots on purpose just to annoy him.

England looked down at his American, his Alfred, and stroked his hair—he was an annoying America, but he was _his_ annoying American. "I suppose I'm happy with it as well, love," he added, setting the book off to the side on his coffee table. Adjusting himself, England settled into the couch, taking one of America's hands with his own. "So," he said, entwining their fingers as he spoke, "the spell was broken with love supposedly. Just how long have you loved me then?"

America again decided to change his position as he slid down, his head now resting in the Briton's lap, curled up on the couch next to him. England found his hand dragged along with America's, finally taking rest just above the other's head on his lap. The other hand was still in America's hair, waiting for him to settle down and stop moving. Finally, he seemed to finally get comfortable as his movement ceased, letting out a content sigh. "How long," he finally murmured, barely audible—which was rare for America, his voice always being so loud. "I finally started noticing something a few months ago, but… I really don't know when it started. I loved you so much when I was little, always looked up to you. But, I think as I got older, my feelings just grew with me. I think I've always loved you, just didn't notice or admit to it until recently." America turned his head slightly to look up at England. "And you, Artie?" he asked, a little smirk on his face. "How long have you been trying to resist me and my gorgeousness?"

Another indignant huff escaped the British gentleman as he rolled his eyes. "To be honest, I've kind of hated you since the Revolution," he replied, feeling America immediately tense as he mentioned it. "I was hurt by it, and felt like things could never go back to the way they were. So I thought it would be better to just hate you than try to fix what I thought could never be fixed. But of course as I tried to do this, you would never shut up or stop trying to talk to me. Which, in some ways, made me hate you even more."

"Wow," America drawled, his expression unimpressed. "You fail at romance. You realized this, right Artie?" This comment received a swift hit to the head. "Ouch!" he yelped, lightly holding his head. "Sorry," he said, hitting England's knee with his hand that wasn't holding England's. "Alright, continue."

England glared down at the American for a moment, but then resumed his story. "For a long time, I convinced myself that I hated you. But, as I think about it, I think that I was just trying to lie to myself, trying to convince myself that I had no other feelings for you. But I think I always have. We've always had…what has France called it? Ah, yes, we've always had some _sexual tensions_."

This caused a laugh to escape America, doubling over on the couch. "Ha, wow, France was right about something for once? Ha ha, it must be the end of the world!" For a moment, England considered telling America that, for the past while, he had gotten all of his romantic advice from France, but decided against it—it would piss the frog if he took all the credit for himself; so he would.

"Just think," America said, turning over on his back so he could look up at England's face correctly. "All of this happened all because you messed up on a spell!" He smiled, sending another jolt down England's spine—how was he always able to do that?

Smiling back, he brushed back America's hair from his face. "Curses," he said softly, leaning down to kiss his American. If only he could get something this good every time he failed. But as he thought about it, he really began to doubt that any of this had ever been an accident. Surely something this good couldn't have just happened all because of an accident. England wasn't one to admit he believed in fate, but this really made him believe that someone up there had decided to have fun coming up with making the path here as bumpy or as awkward as possible. Not that he minded now though. He had everything he could ever want out of life now.

"I love you, Alfred my love," he said between kisses. "I love you more than you could possibly understand."

"And I love you to infinity—and _beyond_!" America replied childishly, receiving a small smack in return. God, he really did love this fool. He loved him more than life itself.

He had everything he could ever need or want; just because of a little curse gone right.

x-x-x-x-x

-sniffle- It's done. –smiles and feels depressed at same time- I am so thankful to everyone! Thank you for your support—you have taught me so much! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! I hope you liked the story, and I cannot wait to write more! I love you all!

Thank you, and please review!


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